313D 


THE  MAKING  OF  THOMAS  BARTON 


THE  MAKING 
OF  THOMAS  BARTON 


B, 
ANNA   NICHOLAS 

Author  of 
AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH,  ETC. 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT  1913 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


PRESS  or 

BRAUNWORTH   A   CO. 

BOOKBINDERS    AND    PRINTERS 

BROOKLYN,    N.   Y. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I  THE  MAKING  OF  THOMAS  BARTON    .     .     .;    ,:    .  1 

II  A  RACE  DRAMA ..    >.  21 

III  A  HAWBURG  SENSATION >     .     .  33 

IV  Miss  LUCYANNA'S  EVENTFUL  DAY    .     .    ...    ...    .  75 

V  OUT  OF  THE  PAST 103 

VI  WHEN  GRANDMOTHER  RAN  AWAY    .     .     .    >;    .  123 

VII  A  BIT  OF  HUMAN  INTEREST 141 

VIII  WHAT  COULD  HE  Do? 167 

IX  A  STORY  WITHOUT  A  MORAL 184 

X  WAS  IT  ALL  A  DREAM? 209 

XI  THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 226 

XII  AN  EVER-PRESENT  HELP 237 

XIII  THE  POSTMISTRESS •    •..-.    .  259 

XIV  KATHARINE  CLARK'S  STORY  .     .     .    >     .     *    ;«    .  286 


2137336 


Acknowledgment  is  hereby  made  to  The  Black  Cat 
Publishing  Company  for  the  right  to  include  in 
this  volume  Miss  LUCYANNA'S  EVENTFUL  DAY 


THE  MAKING  OF  THOMAS  BARTON 


THE  MAKING 
OF  THOMAS  BARTON 

THEY  called  him  Tommy  when  he  came 
into  the  sales  department  of  the  woolen 
mill  at  the  age  of  fourteen.  After  sixteen 
years  had  passed  he  was  still  known  as  Tommy 
by  everybody  about  the  establishment.  It  was 
the  name  his  mother  introduced  him  by  when 
she  had  come  down  to  interview  the  senior  part- 
ner about  getting  her  son  a  position.  She  was 
a  woman  with  a  disappointed  manner  and  a 
melancholy  voice.  She  talked  a  great  deal  in 
telling  what  she  wanted,  and  broke  off  at  inter- 
vals to  weep  copiously  for  no  reason  in  partic- 
ular. She  said  if  Tommy's  father  had  lived 
she  wouldn't  have  to  be  going  out  into  the 
world  to  attend  to  Tommy's  welfare,  but  she 
wanted  to  do  her  duty.  (Assuming  the  fac- 
tory to  be  the  "world",  she  had  need  only  to 
take  a  mile  ride  in  the  street-car  to  get  into  it.) 

1 


2  THOMAS   BARTON 

[Besides,  she  needed  whatever  he  could  earn. 
She  had  come  to  the  senior  partner  because  she 
had  heard  he  was  a  real  nice  man  and  because 
she  had  heard  the  factory  was  making  lots  of 
money  and  could  afford  to  hire  extra  hands 
and  pay  good  wages.  She  couldn't  say  truth- 
fully that  Tommy  was  an  especially  bright 
boy.  The  fact  was,  he  took  too  much  after  his 
father's  people  and  sometimes  he  seemed 
dreadfully  dull-witted;  but  he  was  a  good 
strong  boy  and  if  he  was  kept  right  at  work 
and  firmness  used  he  could  be  made  real  useful. 

The  senior  partner  couldn't  get  in  a  word 
until  she  was  out  of  breath,  and  Tommy,  who 
was  present,  did  not  try  to  speak  but  stood  shy- 
ly in  the  background  with  downcast  eyes.  The 
junior  partner  said  afterward  that  the  "old 
man"  agreed  to  take  the  boy  because  it  was  the 
only  way  he  could  stop  the  mother's  flow  of 
talk.  At  any  rate  he  took  him  on  trial,  and 
whatever  may  have  been  his  private  sentiments 
in  regard  to  the  boy's  mother  and  her  occasion- 
al visits,  he  had  never  regretted  the  action  so 
far  as  Tommy  was  concerned. 

Tommy  began  as  errand  boy  and  general 
factotum,  with  everybody  around  the  premises 


THOMAS    BARTON  3 

free  to  order  him  about.  This  habit  became 
fixed,  for  though  as  years  went  on  he  was 
given  other  duties,  fellow  employees  continued 
to  call  him  Tommy  and  to  ask  him  to  do  odds 
and  ends  of  work  that  they  did  not  like  to  do 
or  thought  they  had  not  time  for.  He  had 
served  as  shipping-clerk,  as  bill-clerk,  as  substi- 
tute and  aid  at  various  other  desks,  and  had 
finally  been  given  the  position  of  assistant 
bookkeeper,  which  seemed  likely  to  be  as  high 
as  he  would  ever  rise.  Tommy  himself  never 
asked  for  a  promotion.  Every  now  and  then 
his  mother  had  called  on  the  senior  partner  and 
urged  that  Tommy  be  advanced.  She  said  she 
knew  he  was  not  overly  smart  and  that  if  it 
wasn't  for  her  looking  out  for  him  he  never 
would  amount  to  anything,  but  it  was  her  duty 
to  push  him  forward  all  she  could.  While  she 
was  in  the  private  office  on  these  occasions  and 
her  droning  voice  rose  and  fell  monotonously 
when  the  door  was  opened  and  closed,  Tom- 
my's face  was  bent  low  over  his  books  and  he 
was  unusually  silent  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 
Naturally,  when  promotions  did  come  she  took 
all  the  credit  to  herself.  She  told  the  firm's 
oldest  traveling  man,  whose  acquaintance  she 


4  THOMAS    BARTON 

had  chanced  to  make,  that  for  a  boy  who  had 
so  little  real  ability  as  Tommy  she  felt  that  she 
had  accomplished  wonders  and  that  he  had 
much  to  thank  her  for.  She  told  Tommy  the 
same  thing  often. 

Curiously  enough,  his  associates  accepted 
him  somewhat  at  his  mother's  estimate.  While 
they  did  not  give  her  credit  for  his  progress, 
such  as  it  was,  neither  did  they  rate  his  ability 
high.  Nevertheless,  in  the  course  of  time 
Tommy  had  acquired  a  vast  deal  of  informa- 
tion about  the  business,  and  his  knowledge  and 
sendees  were  in  constant  demand.  It  was 
Tommy  here  and  Tommy  there  all  day  long. 
The  various  clerks  in  the  office  called  on  Tom- 
my to  help  them  out  when  there  was  a  tangle 
in  their  books  or  when  they  wanted  to  get  off 
to  go  to  a  ball  game  or  to  go  fishing.  The 
traveling  men  were  not  required  to  report  to 
Tommy,  but  it  came  about  that  none  ever  came 
in  or  went  out  without  a  talk  with  him  about 
the  territory  to  be  visited  and  its  special  needs. 
The  man  next  above  Tommy,  after  the  latter 
had  risen  to  be  assistant  bookkeeper,  was 
known  as  the  office  manager;  he  was  also  re- 
garded by  the  firm  as  head  bookkeeper,  but. 


THOMAS    BARTON  5 

as  a  matter  of  fact,  Tommy  had  performed  all 
the  duties  in  this  line  in  addition  to  his  own  for 
the  last  two  incumbents  of  the  position,  often 
remaining  after  hours  working  over  his  led- 
gers. Once  when  his  mother  heard  that  there 
was  to  be  a  vacancy  in  the  higher  position  she 
came  down  and  asked  that  Tommy  be  appoint- 
ed to  fill  it.  She  said  she  would  have  to  admit 
honestly  that  she  had  her  doubts  about  his  be- 
ing capable  of  holding  a  responsible  place  like 
this,  but  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  do  what  she 
could  to  advance  him,  and  then,  too,  expenses 
were  heavy  and  she  needed  the  increase  of  sal- 
ary he  would  receive.  But  Tommy  did  not  get 
the  appointment.  The  partners  agreed  that  it 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Tommy  was  simply 
cut  out  for  a  subordinate  place,  they  said  to 
each  other;  he  had  no  initiative,  no  new  ideas, 
no  executive  ability.  So  a  young  college  man, 
son  of  a  friend  of  the  senior  partner,  was  given 
the  place.  If  Tommy  was  disappointed  he  did 
not  show  it,  but  with  swift  liking  for  the  new- 
comer, did  everything  in  his  power  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  business. 

About  this  time  Tommy's  mother  died,  and 
he  mourned  for  her  sincerely,  as  was  natural  in 


the  case  of  one  to  whom  he  had  devoted  his  life. 
He  was  very  melancholy  for  a  time,  and  obser- 
vant clerks  in  the  office  declared  that  he  was 
scarcely  less  so  when  one  day  he  took  one  of 
his  rare  leaves  of  absence  and  the  evening 
paper  announced  his  marriage  to  Mrs.  Emma 
Jane  Perkins.  He  was  back  at  his  desk  next 
day,  and  was  so  serious  in  manner  that,  free  as 
every  one  felt  to  tease  him  on  ordinary  occa- 
sions, but  little  allusion  was  made  to  his  matri- 
monial venture.  It  was  learned  from  outside 
sources  by  his  inquisitive  associates,  however, 
that  the  former  Mrs.  Perkins  kept  a  boarding- 
house  next  door  to  Tommy's  home  and  that  she 
had  been  a  close  friend  of  Tommy's  mother. 
She  was  a  large  lady  of  imposing  appearance 
and  aggressive  manner,  several  years  older 
than  her  husband,  and  frankly  admitted  that 
she  married  Tommy  in  order  to  look  after  him. 
"He's  one  of  those  men,"  she  said,  addressing 
a  roomful  of  boarders  who  were  offering  con- 
gratulations, "he  is  one  of  those  men  who  ab- 
solutely can  not  get  along  in  this  world  without 
a  woman  to  look  after  him.  His  mother  made 
him  all  he  is  and  without  some  one  in  her  place 
I  don't  know  what  would  become  of  him.  I 


THOMAS    BARTON  7 

promised  her  that  I  would  take  care  of  him." 
It  became  the  general  understanding,  there- 
fore, that  Tommy  was  married  because  he 
couldn't  help  it,  and  as  he  did  not  show  signs 
of  being  especially  happy,  his  friends  felt  for 
him  a  fresh  sense  of  that  commiseration  which 
is  almost  contempt  and  of  which  he  had  always 
had  a  large  share. 

Life  for  him  went  on  after  this  much  as  be- 
fore. Following  the  example  of  his  mother, 
his  wife  made  occasional  visits  to  Tommy's  em- 
ployers in  his  behalf,  urging  them  to  be  good 
to  him  and  assuring  them  of  her  belief  that  he 
had  more  ability  than  people  gave  him  credit 
for,  and  only  needed  a  chance  to  show  it.  As 
Mrs.  Tommy's  voice  was  loud  and  penetrat- 
ing, listening  clerks  in  the  office  outside 
grinned  at  one  another,  and  Tommy's  head 
sank  lower  than  ever  over  his  ledger. 

As  if  such  a  trial  were  not  enough,  a  fresh 
one  was  laid  upon  Tommy's  shoulders  about 
this  time  by  the  presence  in  the  office  of  a  type- 
writer girl  or  rather,  a  succession  of  girls,  as 
they  came,  failed  to  give  satisfaction  and  de- 
parted, or  failed  themselves  to  be  pleased  and 
loftily  went  their  way.  They  had  been  long  in 


8  THOMAS    BARTON 

getting  an  introduction  to  the  establishment, 
because  the  senior  partner  was  old-fashioned 
and  opposed  to  innovations.  The  junior  part- 
ner, however,  urged  the  increase  of  business, 
the  saving  of  time  and  service  and  the  desir- 
ability of  showing  the  house  to  be  up-to-date, 
and  so  won  his  way.  Tommy  was  frankly  in 
awe  of  these  operators.  His  tongue  stumbled 
when  he  tried  to  dictate  letters  to  them,  and  he 
forgot  what  he  wanted  to  say.  In  consequence, 
he  resorted  to  various  devices  to  evade  this 
duty.  Whenever  more  than  one  copy  of  a  doc- 
ument was  necessary  he  wrote  out  what  he 
wished  and  handed  it  to  the  young  woman 
to  be  reproduced  on  her  machine.  He  fell  into 
the  fashion,  unheard  of  with  him  before,  of 
asking  one  clerk  or  another  to  write  this  letter 
and  that  letter  instead  of  doing  their  work 
himself,  as  had  so  often  been  the  case.  As 
much  as  he  could,  he  adhered  to  the  old  fashion 
of  writing  his  letters  with  the  pen,  asserting, 
when  his  employers  protested,  that  it  was  less 
work  than  to  correct  the  mistakes  in  the  type- 
written epistles.  The  independent  young 
women  paid  no  attention  to  his  criticisms  of 
their  work,  however,  but  called  him  "Tommy" 


THOMAS    BARTON  9 

like  every  one  else,  and  ordered  him  about  be- 
fore they  had  been  in  the  place  a  week. 

Life  seemed  to  weigh  on  Tommy  along  at 
this  time.  His  usual  cheeriness  deserted  him  to 
some  extent ;  he  was  often  silent  and  cast  down 
where  he  had  been  wont  to  be  ready  of  speech 
and  good-naturedly  responsive  to  the  conversa- 
tional give-and-take  of  the  office  force.  His 
associates  liked  him  and  began  to  realize  what 
it  would  be  to  lose  the  inspiration  of  his  sweet 
temper  and  never-failing  urgent  loyalty  to  his 
employers'  interests.  They  wondered  if  do- 
mestic infelicities  had  anything  to  do  with  his 
depression,  but  of  course  Tommy  said  nothing. 
Probably  he  did  not  know  himself  what  was 
the  matter,  but  was  simply  overcome  by  the 
dumb  instinct  that  all  was  not  as  it  might  be 
with  his  life. 

Then  events  happened  that  changed  the  cur- 
rent of  his  affairs.  Before  he  had  been  mar- 
ried two  years  his  wife  died.  That  buxom 
energetic  lady  who  had  looked  as  if  she  had 
enough  vitality  to  equip  half  a  dozen  common 
mortals  was  overcome  by  a  passing  epidemic 
that  left  physically  insignificant,  frail-looking 
persons  like  Tommy  untouched.  In  her  last 


10  THOMAS   BARTON 

moments  she  lamented  that  she  must  go  and 
leave  Tommy,  and  wondered  what  would  be- 
come of  him  without  her  care.  He  was  one  of 
those  men,  she  said,  who  needed  a  woman  to 
take  the  lead  for  him.  The  irreverent  office 
boys  wondered  if  she  had  thoughtfully  provid- 
ed another  wife  for  him  in  advance,  but  appar- 
ently she  omitted  to  do  this. 

Tommy  went  about  his  work  as  usual,  wear- 
ing a  gentle  air  of  sadness  for  a  few  days,  but 
showing  no  signs  of  deep  grief.  Presently  his 
associates  noticed  a  gradual  return  on  his  part 
to  his  old-time  cheerfulness,  and  the  more  ob- 
servant ones  were  conscious  of  a  subtle  change 
in  him  beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  exceeding 
his  old-time  record  for  amiability  and  good 
spirits.  He  was  at  times  gay  and  even  spright- 
ly in  manner,  and  there  was  a  self-assertion  oc- 
casionally manifest  that  was  quite  new.  "It's 
the  first  time  in  his  life,"  said  the  oldest  travel- 
ing man  of  the  house,  "that  he  has  not  been  led 
along  by  a  woman  and  he's  feeling  his  liberty 
without  realizing  exactly  what  has  happened 
to  him."  With  all  this  appearance  of  courage, 
however,  the  typewriter  young  women  still  dis- 
concerted him. 


THOMAS    BARTON  11 

About  this  time  the  office  manager,  the  son 
of  the  senior  partner's  friend,  decided  to  resign 
his  position.  He  didn't  like  office  work,  he  told 
Tommy,  and  he  was  going  out  to  see  what  he 
could  do  with  a  farm  his  father  owned.  He 
felt  sure  he  would  succeed  with  that. 

"And  now,  Tommy,"  he  said  in  a  confiden- 
tial talk  before  his  departure,  "now,  Tommy, 
I  want  to  give  you  a  piece  of  advice.  You 
ought  to  have  had  the  position  I  hold;  you 
ought  to  have  had  it  long  ago,  and  I  want  you 
to  go  to  the  boss  and  apply  for  it  this  time. 
You've  been  doing  the  work  of  the  place  prac- 
tically for  years  and  other  people  have  been 
drawing  the  salary  and  getting  the  credit. 
You  know  very  well  I  couldn't  have  stayed 
here  unless  you  had  helped  me  out  all  along 
the  line.  And  you  don't  do  right  by  yourself. 
Here  you  go  all  the  time,  giving  a  hint  here 
and  a  plan  there  for  improving  the  business 
and  the  other  fellows  take  the  hint  and  work 
out  the  plans,  and  you  get  no  benefit  except  as 
virtue  is  its  own  reward.  That  new  worsted 
skirting  with  the  fancy  border,  for  instance, 
was  one  of  your  ideas,  but  the  loom  foreman 
got  all  the  credit  and  a  raise  of  salary  on  ac- 


12  THOMAS    BARTON 

count  of  it.  Now,  you  make  a  strike  for  this 
place.  Stand  up  for  yourself.  I'll  say  what 
I  can,  but  I'm  afraid  my  influence  won't  go 
far.  They  don't  think  any  too  highly  of  my 
judgment."  And  he  laughed  the  careless  laugh 
of  youth  which  has  not  yet  taken  itself  seri- 
ously. 

Tommy  did  apply  for  promotion,  but  hesi- 
tatingly as  if  he  hardly  hoped  or  expected  to 
receive  what  he  asked.  And  he  did  not.  The 
partners,  senior  and  junior,  looked  at  each 
other  after  he  went  out  and  shook  their  heads. 
They  liked  Tommy,  but  he  hadn't  enough 
push,  the  junior  partner  said.  "He's  picking 
up  though,  lately,"  remarked  the  senior  re- 
flectively, "or  he  wouldn't  have  asked  for  the 
place."  They  appointed  to  the  position  he 
wanted  a  brisk  young  traveling  man  who  had 
somehow  convinced  the  firm  that  he  was  the 
one  they  needed. 

Tommy,  thereupon,  quietly  adopted  tactics 
never  attempted  before.  He  confined  himself 
strictly  to  his  own  work.  He  treated  his  new 
associate  with  civility,  but  volunteered  no  aid 
or  instruction.  Also,  it  became  suddenly  incon- 
venient for  him  to  "help  out"  on  the  work  of 


THOMAS    BARTON  18 

any  clerk  who  felt  lazy  or  wanted  an  afternoon 
off.  And  though  he  did  not  sulk,  but  even 
hummed  the  latest  popular  song  over  his  work 
at  times,  the  office  force  realized  a  certain  dif- 
ference in  Tommy. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  sun  shone  into  his  life 
as  it  had  never  shone  before.  This  illumina- 
tion came  with  the  advent  of  a  new  typewriter 
girl.  She  was  a  little,  pale-faced,  insignificant- 
looking  creature,  Mamie  Middleton  by  name, 
with  a  timid  manner  and  a  frightened  expres- 
sion in  her  pale  blue  eyes  that  was  in  striking 
contrast  to  the  confident  air  of  the  haughty 
young  women  who  had  been  her  predecessors. 
A  little  experience  showed  that  she  could  take 
her  notes  fairly  well  and  transcribe  them  with 
reasonable  accuracy  and  passable  spelling 
when  nothing  happened  to  terrify  her.  But 
something  was  always  happening.  The  junior 
partner  was  rather  short  and  sharp  in  manner, 
the  office  manager  dictated  too  rapidly,  or  the 
bill-clerk  rattled  off  technical  terms  she  had 
never  heard  before,  whereupon  the  newcomer's 
work  got  into  a  tangle  and  brought  her  into 
deep  distress. 

Then  it  was  that  Tommy  rose  to  the  situa- 


14,  THOMAS    BARTON 

tion  and  came  to  her  relief — Tommy  who  had 
always  been  afraid  of  women  and  had  never 
before  felt  that  one  of  them  had  needed  him. 
Need  him  this  girl  certainly  did;  he  felt  it  in 
her  appealing  look.  He  took  it  upon  himself 
to  supervise  the  letters  she  wrote;  he  dictated 
as  many  as  possible  himself  and  did  it  so  gently 
and  with  such  cheery  assurance  that  all  was 
right — spelling  out  hard  words  as  he  went 
along — that  her  glance  changed  from  timid 
appeal  to  deepest  gratitude  and  he  felt 
a  sense  of  satisfaction  with  himself  that 
he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  explain. 
As  far  as  possible  he  corrected  her  mis- 
takes. When  the  junior  partner  grumbled 
about  the  errors  in  his  letters  Tommy  boldly 
declared  that  it  was  no  wonder  there  were  mis- 
takes ;  there  was  entirely  too  much  for  any  one 
girl  to  do.  He  took  authority  upon  himself 
and  sharply  reproved  a  young  clerk  who,  after 
a  week's  acquaintance,  addressed  the  young 
woman  familiarly  as  "Mayme".  She  called 
Tommy  "Mr.  Barton",  was  extremely  defer- 
ential to  him  and  speedily  fell  into  the  way  of 
going  to  him  with  all  her  little  troubles.  Tom- 


THOMAS    BARTON  15 

my  began  to  feel  glad  he  was  alive.  He  held 
his  head  high  and  took  on  a  dignity  unknown 
to  him  before;  he  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
grown  taller.  Old  customers  coming  in 
glanced  at  him  inquiringly  and  told  him  he 
was  looking  mighty  well  these  days. 

The  office  force  was  awake  to  the  situation, 
and  the  frivolous  youngsters  who  made  a  part 
of  it  grinned  across  their  desks  and  exchanged 
many  a  sly  wink  as  they  saw  the  passing  of 
glances  between  the  stenographer  and  Tommy 
and  noted  the  unconsciously  tender  cadences  of 
their  voices  when  they  spoke  to  each  other. 
For  Paradise  had  dawned  for  these  two  in  this 
dingy  old  office.  It  was  a  glorified  place  to 
them.  They  came  to  their  work  early,  they  lin- 
gered over  it  late,  secretly  welcoming  the  tasks 
that  kept  them  in  each  other's  company.  Love's 
witchery  was  over  them  and  the  world  was  new 
in  their  eyes — a  world,  it  seemed,  that  surely 
had  never  been  so  bright  and  glad  to  any  be- 
fore them.  In  this  blessed  glamour  they  basked 
and  bloomed  and  knew  that  life  was  worth  the 
living.  It  was  an  idyl  as  sweet  and  pure  as  if 
the  actors  and  their  surroundings  had  been 


16  THOMAS    BARTON 

such  as  poets  write  of.  The  sordid  atmosphere 
of  the  counting  house  was  not  there  for  them; 
they  breathed  a  finer  essence. 

How  long  this  might  have  gone  on,  each  ab- 
sorbed in  the  present,  not  awake  to  what  the 
future  might  have  for  them,  none  can  say ;  but 
one  day  a  crisis  came.  The  junior  partner,  in 
a  moment  of  exasperation  because  an  impor- 
tant letter  that  should  have  gone  in  haste  to 
Chicago  had  been  addressed  to  New  York,  de- 
clared with  impolite  emphasis  that  this  sort  of 
thing  must  stop ;  that  unless  a  speedy  improve- 
ment was  made  in  Miss  Middleton's  work  she 
would  have  to  go.  He  had  not  observed  that  a 
love  affair  was  in  progress,  and  being  a  hard- 
headed  unsympathetic  man,  would  doubtless 
have  declared,  had  he  been  aware  of  it,  that  it 
was  precisely  this  that  made  the  young  woman 
careless  of  her  duties — and  would  probably 
have  been  quite  right. 

But  Tommy  was  startled.  The  thought  of 
coming  days  in  which  Mamie  had  no  part 
seemed  an  unendurable  prospect.  He  sat  at 
his  desk,  his  accounts  for  once  neglected,  idly 
scribbling  on  a  scrap  of  paper  and  thinking 
hard.  He  thought  out  a  plan — one  whose  dar- 


THOMAS    BARTON  17 

ing  made  him  catch  his  breath.  For  though  he 
knew  what  his  own  sentiments  were  he  did  not 
know  Mamie's,  love  being  blind.  His  keen- 
eyed  associates  could  have  informed  him,  but 
them  he  did  not  consult. 

That  night,  Mamie  having  stayed  late  to 
finish  some  important  mail,  Tommy  walked 
home  with  her  in  the  early  dusk.  They  went 
a  roundabout  way  and  their  steps  were  slow, 
but  when  at  last  they  arrived  at  her  door  Tom- 
my's plan  had  been  put  to  a  successful  test  and 
the  April  stars  looked  down  on  no  happier  pair. 
The  future  was  solved  for  them,  and  life  was 
very  sweet. 

Next  day  Miss  Mamie  handed  in  her  resig- 
nation, and  the  same  day,  Tommy,  to  whom 
vacations  were  rare  events,  asked  for  two 
weeks'  leave  of  absence. 

"I  don't  see  how  we  can  spare  you  just  now, 
Tommy,"  said  the  senior  partner.  "Johnson, 
the  office  manager,  thinks  he  would  like  to  go 
back  on  the  road,  and  I'm  ready  to  have  him 
go,  for  he  hasn't  done  so  well  in  his  present 
position  as  I  expected." 

Then  Tommy  rose  nobly  to  the  occasion.  "I 
wish  to  apply  once  more  for  that  position,  sir," 


18 

he  said  respectfully,  but  with  an  air  of  firmness 
and  assurance  formerly  unknown  to  him.  "I 
have  earned  the  place  and  am  qualified  to  fill  it. 
I  must  decline  to  remain  longer  in  my  present 
subordinate  position.  Unless  I  may  have  the 
promotion  I  shall  have  to  go  elsewhere,  and  I 
have  reason  to  believe  that  my  services  are 
rated  as  valuable  by  another  house.  I  am 
about  to  be  married  to  Miss  Mamie  Middleton 
and  must  do  the  best  possible  for  myself  in  a 
business  way." 

There  was  an  air  of  finality  about  his  man- 
ner and  his  tone  that  was  impressive.  More- 
over, the  president  of  the  opposition  factory — 
this  was  before  the  day  of  trusts — had  been 
seen  to  stop  and  talk  to  Tommy  on  the  street 
the  day  previous.  The  partners  thought  rap- 
idly and  did  not  even  wait  for  private  consulta- 
tion, but  communicated  by  affirmative  nods. 

"All  right,  Barton,"  said  the  senior  member 
of  the  firm.  "All  right,  you  shall  have  the 
place.  We  had  thought  of  offering  it  to  you, 
and  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  do  well.  Take 
your  two  weeks  off  and  we  shall  get  along 
somehow.  And  allow  me  to  congratulate  you 


THOMAS   BARTON  19 

on  your  coming  marriage  to  so  estimable  a 
young  lady  and  to  wish  you  well." 

Then  both  partners  shook  hands  with  Tom- 
my, and  he  went  out  feeling  as  if  the  earth  and 
the  fulness  thereof  were  his. 

A  year  later  the  senior  partner  was  heard  to 
say  to  a  visitor — who  was  not  a  rival  in  busi- 
ness: 

"Our  office  manager,  Mr.  Thomas  Barton, 
is  a  most  valuable  man.  Business  is  constantly 
increasing  under  his  direction ;  he  has  a  positive 
genius  for  it."  He  paused  a  moment  and  went 
on  reflectively :  "His  development  was  rather 
slow  and  I  give  his  wife  the  credit  for  bringing 
him  out.  She  has  been  the  making  of  him." 

The  oldest  traveling  man,  who  chanced  to 
overhear,  said  in  sotto  voce  comment  to  the  bill- 
clerk  : 

"She  has  been  the  making  of  him,  true 
enough,  but  she'll  never  guess  it  or  know  why. 
It  was  only  because  she  was  more  timid  and  de- 
pendent than  he  that  his  manliness  was 
aroused.  Up  to  that  time  no  woman  had  given 
him  a  chance  to  think  himself  of  any  account, 


20  THOMAS    BARTON 

which  was  a  great  mistake.  A  woman  ought  to 
have  gumption  enough  to  pretend  to  look  up 
to  a  man  whether  she  really  does  or  not.  But 
Barton,  he's  all  right  now." 


A  RACE  DRAMA 

"There's  a  little  thing  lays  in  mah  heaht 
And  he  sets  mah  soul  on  fiah — 

Mah  soul! 

Mastah  Jesus,  mah  soul,  mah  soul! 
— O-oh  m-a-h  so-oul!" 

THE  melancholy  wail  from  the  kitchen 
indicated  plainly  that  something  was 
weighing  on  Cah'line  Brown's  mind.  Cah'line, 
known  in  domestic  parlance  as  "the  girl",  or 
maid  of  all  work,  was  in  reality  neither  girl  nor 
maid,  but  a  widow  whose  age  was  indicated  by 
the  fact  that  she  had  been  born  a  slave.  For 
three  years  she  had  reigned  in  my  kitchen 
much  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  small  house- 
hold, one  cause  of  the  esteem  in  which  she  was 
held  being  her  uniform  cheerfulness.  She  was 
given  to  singing,  and  if  the  songs  sometimes 
had  a  weird  minor  cadence  peculiar  to  the  mu- 
sic of  the  negroes,  the  words  were  apt  to  be 
joyous,  and  the  melody  to  be  broken  by  a  gay 
laugh  whenever  the  smallest  excuse  for  gaiety 

21 


22  A    RACE    DRAMA 

presented  itself.    A  favorite  "hymn",  sung  to 
a  spirited  tune,  had  a  refrain  like  this : 

"I  boun'  for  to  go  up  to  Aberham's  fold, 

An'  I'll  ride, 

Yes,  I  will — 
An'  I'll  ride  right  on  to  glory!'* 

But  for  several  days  a  change  in  the  charac- 
ter of  the  songs  had  been  noticeable.  They 
were  lugubrious  in  sound  and  sentiment.  They 
dealt  chiefly  with  the  troubles  of  po'  lost  sin- 
ners, and  the  devil,  the  devil's  place  of  resi- 
dence and  death's  dark  door  figured  in  them 
prominently.  One  expressed  an  anxiety  to  go 
to  meet  mother  in  the  morning  "before  the 
heaven  door  closed."  Asked  if  she  were  ill, 
Cah'line  said  she  was  "only  just  sort  o'  paini- 
fied  but  not  sick,  oh,  no'm,"  and  continued  to 
go  about  wearing  a  look  of  deepest  dejection. 
Members  of  the  household  discussed  the  possi- 
ble causes  of  her  melancholy  but  could  reach 
no  conclusion.  She  had  no  family  anxieties 
of  which  we  knew.  A  daughter,  still  quite 
young,  was  married  to  an  industrious  teamster 


A    RACE    DRAMA  23 

and  had  a  comfortable  home  a  few  blocks 
away.  With  her  was  Cah'line's  son,  a  very 
black  youngster  of  ten  or  twelve,  who  made 
frequent  visits  to  his  mother  and  was  admon- 
ished by  her  on  each  occasion  in  terrifying  lan- 
guage, though  it  did  not  appear  that  he  was 
ever  guilty  of  any  serious  misdemeanor. 

'  'Gustus  Henery  Brown,  yo'  triflin'  no'- 
count  limb  of  Satan,"  she  was  wont  to  say  to 
him  with  stern  and  threatening  aspect,  "yo' 
young  limb,  ef  yo'  doan'  min'  yo'  teacher  and 
leahn  them  lessons  like  she  say,  I  jes'  nachully 
gwine  break  every  bone  in  yo'  body.  I  gwine 
whup  yo'  twell  yo'  ain't  nevah  f ergit  who  yo' 
maw!" 

'Gustus  Henery  received  these  warnings 
with  solemnly  uprolled  eyes,  but  as  he  was  im- 
mediately regaled  by  his  mother  with  some 
dainty — from  my  pantry — I  suspected  that  he 
was  not  greatly  impressed. 

Cah'line,  as  her  colored  friends  called  her, 
regarded  herself  as  financially  prosperous ;  she 
put  fifty  cents  each  week  into  a  building  asso- 
ciation, and  belonged  to  the  White  Doves  of 
Protection,  a  benefit  society  into  which  she  paid 


24  A   RACE    DRAMA 

dues,  and  to  whose  funerals  she  rode  in  state, 
bedecked  with  purple  ribbons.  Obviously  it 
could  not  be  money  matters  that  troubled 
Cah'line.  She  was  a  leading  sister  in  a  Baptist 
church  and,  of  course,  could  not  be  suspected 
of  suffering  from  spiritual  woes. 

What  could  be  the  matter?  Lately,  a  dapper 
young  mulatto  had  been  visiting  her,  slipping 
in  and  out  in  the  summer  twilight  in  rather  a 
furtive  way,  and  engaging  her  in  close  conver- 
sation on  the  back  steps.  Contrary  to  her  cus- 
tom when  callers  were  concerned,  she  had  not 
seemed  disposed  to  talk  of  him.  Could  he  be 
somehow  the  cause  of  her  depressed  spirits? 
At  all  events,  the  matter  was  getting  serious. 
Cah'line  was  restless  at  night  and  was  heard 
moving  softly  about  at  unseemly  hours.  Then, 
too,  she  was  apt  to  withdraw  to  her  room  on  the 
upper  floor  when  she  was  needed  elsewhere. 
But  she  remained  silent  as  to  the  cause  of  her 
unusual  behavior. 

One  morning  I  returned  unexpectedly  from 
an  absence  that  had  been  meant  to  be  for  sev- 
eral hours.  Cah'line  was  invisible,  but  was  not 
out  of  hearing.  From  up  the  stairs  came  a 
doleful  strain : 


A   RACE    DRAMA1  25 

"Before  another  year  I  may  be  gone — 
In  some  lonesome  graveyard. 

Oh,  Lord,  how  long? 
When  it  was  day  I  wished  it  night. 

Oh,  Lord,  how  long? 
In  some  lonesome  graveyard — • 
Oh,  Lord,  how  long?" 

I  went  up  the  steps  and  paused  at  the  top, 
startled  at  the  sight.  Cah'line  was  coming 
down  from  the  attic,  a  place  devoted  to  the 
storing  of  old  furniture  and  seldom  visited. 
She  bore  a  tray  full  of  empty  dishes,  and  in 
the  doorway  behind  her  stood  the  young  mu- 
latto whose  visits  had  attracted  notice.  When 
she  saw  me,  Cah'line  instantly  set  her  tray  on 
the  floor  and  leaned  on  a  chair  as  if  steadying 
herself;  the  man  in  the  doorway  above  looked 
frightened. 

"What  does  this  mean,  Caroline?  Are  you 
hiding  burglars?" 

"Law,  ma'am,"  she  stammered,  "doan'  look 
thataway  at  me,  doan'  you  do  it.  This  young 
gen'leman  hyeh,  Mistah  'Lonzo  Williams,  he 
ain'  gwine  hu't  yo'.  He  jes',  he  jes' — he  ain' 
mean  no  hahm.  Lawzee,  he  ain'  no  buhglah." 

"Tell  me  the  truth,  Caroline ;  why  is  he  in  my 
house  and  why  are  you  feeding  him?" 


26  A   RACE    DRAMA! 

"Laws,  I  didn*  reckon  yo'd  care  ef  I'd  give 
jes'  a  little  o'  this  aigs  an'  ham  to  a  po'  hongry 
man.  Doan'  look  at  me  thataway.  Yo'  ain't 
nevah  looked  at  me  cross  thataway  bef  o'.  Law, 
law,  I  reckon  I'll  jes'  have  to  tell  yo'  all  how 
come  this  boy  hyeh." 

She  turned  to  the  attic  with  a  sudden  change 
in  her  voice  and  manner. 

"Jes'  step  inside  an'  shet  de  do',  'Lonzo, 
honey,"  she  said  with  a  tone  of  authority  but 
with  the  tenderest  inflections.  Then,  with  all 
her  dignity  restored,  but  with  trouble  in  her 
eyes,  she  said  quietly:  "That  my  son." 

"Your  son!" 

"That  my  son.  I  ain't  nevah  tole  yo'  'bout 
him  fob  reasons.  It's  thisaway:  'Lonzo,  he 
been  livin'  down  in  Louieville  twell  this  sum- 
mah,  when  he  came  up  hyeh  and  took  a  job  as 
'sistant  head  waitah  down  at  de  Bates.  Oh,  he 
mighty  tony  young  man,  'Lonzo  is;  yo'  kin 
see  that  at  jes'  one  look.  The  Bates  closed  fob 
repaihs  this  week  an'  that  give  'Lonzo  mo'  time 
to  'joy  hisself .  He  was  strollin'  home  from  his 
sweetheaht's  house  Sunday  evenin'  an'  fell  in 
with  a  gang  o'  colo'ed  boys,  real  black  niggahs, 
(oh,  the  scornful  emphasis  on  the  last  words!) 


A   RACE    DRAMA  27 

an'  one  o'  them  niggahs  got  cut,  an*  the  police 
chased  them,  an'  'Lonzo  he  jes'  nachully  run 
hyeh  to  he  maw.  Cou'se  he  didn'  do  no  cuttin' 
'cause  he  nevah  carry  no  razah;  I  done  train 
him  up  bettah  than  that.  He  ben  hyeh  three 
days.  I  lowed  yo'  ain't  care  f oh  the  few  bites 
he  done  eat,  an'  he  ain'  done  no  hu't  sleepin'  up 
in  the  garret  twell  I  kin  fin*  out  ef  the  cuttin' 
bad.  'Lonzo  reckon  the  man  daid,  but  cain't 
fin'  it  in  the  papahs." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  at  first?  I  have 
always  been  kind  to  you." 

"Yes'm,  you  jes'  been  mighty  good,  but  I 
'low  yo'  wouldn't  want  the  police  huntin'  af tah 
a  man  in  yo'  house, — an' — an',  besides,  I  ain't 
passin'  as  his  maw  since  he  ben  livin'  hyeh. 
Yo'  see,  it's  thisaway.  His  sweetheaht  b'longs 
to  one  o'  the  'ristocratic  colo'ed  families.  Her 
paw's  the  preachah  at  the  Lincoln  Street 
chu'ch  where  the  light-colo'ed  folks  go,  an' 
she  moves  in  the  ve'y  best  s'ciety.  Her  paw's 
light  skinned  an'  she's  mighty  nigh  white.  Yo' 
couldn't  hahdly  tell  she  was  a  lady  of  coloh." 

Cah'line,  who  was  black,  spoke  of  the  com- 
plexion of  her  prospective  daughter-in-law 
with  immense  pride,  and  if  her  eyelids  flickered 


28  A   RACE    DRAMA 

when  she  told  of  her  son's  wish  to  hide  his 
mother  in  the  background,  she  showed  no  other 
sign  of  emotion. 

"Now,"  she  went  on,  "  'Lonzo,  he  'low  that  it 
won'  do  f  oh  Lily  an'  her  paw  to  know  that  his 
maw's  black,  an'  that  she  ain'  b'long  to  the  mos' 
selec'  suhcles,  kase  it  might  break  off  the  wed- 
din'.  So  I  been  layin'  low,  an'  he  ben  comin* 
to  see  me  now  an'  then,  but  ain't  say  nothin'  to 
no  one  'bout  bein'  my  kin.  Yo'  ain'  gwine  to 
call  the  police,  is  you  ?" 

Hiding  a  possible  criminal  in  my  house  with- 
out my  knowledge  and  feeding  him  from  my 
larder  was  a  liberty,  certainly,  and  it  might 
be  supposed  that  I  then  and  there  dealt  with 
the  offender  sternly,  but  I  did  not.  If  the 
man  and  his  mother  had  been  white,  the  pro- 
ceeding would  have  seemed,  somehow,  much 
more  serious.  Long  acquaintance  with  the 
negro  character  had  made  me  regard  members 
of  the  race  somewhat  as  children,  to  be  treated 
leniently,  or,  at  least,  to  be  judged  by  no  such 
rigid  standard  as  that  to  which  keen,  self-re- 
liant, unemotional  white  folk  are  expected  to 
conform.  So  it  happened  that  instead  of 
proper  indignation  I  began  to  feel  curiosity 


A   RACE    DRAMA  29 

and    amusement    after   the    first    alarm   had 
passed. 

"  Yo'  sho'ly  ain'  gwine  to  give  him  up,  is  yo'  ?" 
she  persisted  anxiously.  "He  cain't  nevah  get 
mahied  to  Lily  ef  he  go  to  jail,  her  paw  so  up- 
pity. An'  I  cain't  let  him  go.  Lawd,  I  cain't; 
he  my  son." 

A  very  agony  of  love  was  in  her  voice.  Lit- 
tle black  'Gustus  Henery  had  never  aroused 
such  a  feeling,  I  was  sure. 

"I  never  knew  that  you  had  been  married 
twice,  Caroline,"  I  said,  not  much  heeding  my 
own  words  as  I  considered  how  I  could  find  out 
from  official  sources  the  exact  character  of 
'Lonzo's  offense  without  betraying  him.  Cah'- 
line's  expression  arrested  my  attention.  Her 
eyes  were  cast  down,  and  if  she  had  not  been 
black,  I  should  have  said  that  she  blushed.  It 
was  undeniable  embarrassment  that  affected 
her. 

'  'Lonzo's  paw  a  white  man,  ma'am,"  she 
said  hesitatingly,  and  twisting  the  corner  of 
her  apron.  "Ladies  like  you  doan'  understan*. 
When  the  war  done,  I  was  a  young  gal  an' 
stayed  right  on  with  my  ole  maw  on  ole  Gunnel 
Williams's  blue  grass  fahm  where  I  bawn. 


30  A   RACE   DRAMA 

Gunnel  Williams,  he  one  of  these  pow'f  ul  high- 
toned  Kentucky  gen'lemen.  His  son,  Mistah 
Henery  Clay  Williams — they  use  call  him 
'Mistah  Clay'  foh  short, — mighty  nice  young 
man,  too.  I — I  jes'  a  foolish  young  gal  in 
them  days;  a  foolish,  giddy  gal, — an' — an' 
Mistah  Clay,  he  'Lonzo's  paw." 

Cah'line  was  black,  but  she  had  regular  fea- 
tures and  was  tall  and  erect,  with  the  carriage 
that  comes  from  bearing  burdens  on  the  head 
— the  carriage  that  in  women  of  another  class 
is  called  queenly.  As  I  looked  at  her  standing 
there,  with  her  head  held  high  and  the  look  of 
excitement  on  her  face,  I  could  see  that  she 
must  have  been  a  comely  maid.  She  went  on 
talking,  seemingly  glad  of  the  opportunity, 
now  that  she  had  begun  to  tell  her  story,  and 
half  forgetful  of  her  listener. 

"Mistah  Clay,  he  been  daid  long  time,  an'  I 
done  try  to  raise  that  boy  o'  his'n  right.  He 
ben  to  school  an'  leahn  things  like  white  folks. 
I  tole  him  that  ef  he  mah'y  a  light-colo'ed  gal, 
their  chillen'd  jes  nachully  be  whitah'n  they 
paw  and  maw  and  bimeby  they  wouldn't  be  no 
black  folks  in  the  f am'ly.  An'  yo'  know,  ma'am, 
the  preachah  say  that  all  the  black  people  '11  be 


31 

white  in  heaven,  an'  when  I  get  theah  I  reckon 
mebbe  Mistah  Clay,  he'll— he'll— fergit  that  I 
jes'  a  po'  niggah  gal  down  hyah,  an'  he'll  say, 
'Cah'line,  honey,  I  been  awaitin'  fob  yoV  ' 

Overcome  by  emotion,  Cah'line  sat  down 
heavily  upon  the  step,  and  throwing  her  apron 
over  her  head,  sobbed,  and  moaned,  and  rocked 
to  and  fro.  Looking  on,  I  suddenly  realized 
that  it  was  not  anxiety  for  her  son  that  so 
moved  this  woman.  It  was  a  tender  memory 
of  the  man  whose  victim  she  had  been  in  her 
youth — a  faithful  human  love,  forgetful  of 
wrongs  and  not  marred  by  difference  in  the 
color  of  their  skin,  nor  by  the  incidental  episode 
of  a  marriage,  later,  to  another  man.  And  all 
at  once,  with  this  betrayal  of  the  yearning  of 
the  negro  to  be  white,  and  with  the  disclosure 
that  relations  so  repugnant  to  finer  sensibilities 
might  be  hallowed,  on  one  side,  at  least,  by  a 
pure  affection,  came  a  new  revelation  of  the 
tragedy  of  race. 

Two  years  later,  after  a  long  absence  from 
the  city,  chance  took  me,  one  June  morning, 
to  Military  Park,  beloved  of  the  colored  popu- 
lation. There,  on  a  bench,  arrayed  in  her  f  av- 


32  A   RACE   DRAMA 

orite  finery — a  purple  bonnet,  black  gown  and 
long  white  apron, — sat  Cah'line.  After  a 
friendly  greeting — exuberant  on  her  part — she 
turned  with  an  air  of  proud  proprietorship  to 
her  charge,  two  round-eyed  bronze  babies. 

"These  hyeh  twins,"  she  explained,  "b'long 
to  'Lonzo  an'  Lily.  Yas'm,  he  done  mah'y  the 
preachah's  gal,  but  the  chillun  they  didn'  come 
white  like  we  all's  'spected;  they  take  aftah 
theyun's  gran'maw.  Reckon  the  Lawd,  He 
know  best  'bout  such  mattahs.  But  they  paw 
an'  maw,  they  loves  'em  jes'  the  same,  an'  they 
both  mighty  glad  to  have  ole  black  mammy 
'tend  the  little  blessed  lambs.  'Lonzo  he  am' 
gwine  back  on  he  maw  no  mo'." 

Cah'line's  mellow  laugh  spoke  of  deep  con- 
tent, ana  as  I  passed  on  the  old  familiar  re- 
frain floated  after — 

"An'  I'll  ride, 
Yes,  I  will — 
An'  I'll  ride  right  on  to  glory.*' 


A  HAWBURG  SENSATION 

MRS.  MARIA  ANN  SMITH  was  oc- 
cupying an  advantageous  position  in 
her  sister's  parlor  at  Hawburg ;  advantageous, 
because  she  could,  by  merely  turning  her  head, 
see  who  came  and  went  on  the  two  main  streets 
of  the  town.  The  house,  which  had  been  built 
with  this  very  possibility  in  mind,  stood  on  a 
corner  and  had  a  large  bay  window  across  the 
angle.  Mrs.  Smith  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  be- 
hind the  lace  curtains  and  commented  on  the 
passers-by.  She  had  lived  in  Hawburg  during 
her  girlhood,  and  though  that  interesting  pe- 
riod had  long  passed,  she  had  since  visited  her 
sister  frequently  and  so  had  been  able,  as  she 
said,  to  keep  tab  on  the  old-timers  and  become 
acquainted  with  many  of  the  newcomers. 
Therefore  it  was  that  she  had  a  personal  inter- 
est in  a  majority  of  those  who  came  in  sight 
and  talked  them  and  their  affairs  over  with  the 
appalling  freedom  common  between  sisters 
and  close  friends — a  freedom  barred  in  polite 

33 


34     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

society,  but  which,  there  is  reason  to  suspect,  is 
enjoyed  even  by  "advanced"  women  better- 
yes,  better  even  than  writing  and  reading  club 
papers. 

Mrs.  Smith's  visit  on  this  occasion  was 
one  of  mingled  business  and  pleasure.  She  had 
come  up  from  her  home  at  the  capital  in  her 
capacity  of  Great  Minnehaha  of  the  Great 
Sun  Council  of  the  Order  of  Pocahontas  to 
officiate  at  the  establishing  of  a  branch  of  the 
organization;  to  do  the  "secret  work"  incident 
to  the  event,  and  so  on.  This  undertaking  had 
been  accomplished  with  much  ceremony  the 
evening  before,  and  now,  free  from  responsi- 
bility, she  was  ready  to  consider  personal  and 
social  matters. 

"It  seems  to  me,  Jinny,"  was  her  first  re- 
mark after  looking  critically  at  the  residence 
opposite,  "that  Sam  White  is  letting  his  house 
get  shabby.  It  needs  painting,  the  fence  needs 
mending  and  the  bricks  are  falling  off  the 
chimney.  What's  the  matter — business  run- 
ning down?" 

"N-o-o,  I  guess  not,  Maria;  I  reckon  he  has 
to  spend  more  than  he  can  afford  on  them 
children  of  his.  Jim's  trying  to  be  a  lawyer, 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     35 

and  Sadie  she's  down  to  the  city,  you  know, 
taking  music  lessons." 

"Music— huh!"  sniffed  Maria.  "Of  all  the 
fool  ways  of  wasting  money,  spending  it  on 
music  lessons  for  girls  who  had  better  be  learn- 
ing how  to  cook  a  beefsteak  or  to  make  their 
own  clothes  is  the  foolishest.  I  see  Sadie  once 
in  a  while  down  home,  and  I'll  give  a  guess  she 
spends  more  time  prinking  and  gadding  about 
the  streets  than  in  practising  her  music.  And 
I  doubt  if  Jim's  got  the  gumption  to  make  a 
lawyer;  he  takes  too  much  after  his  mother, 
and  you  know,  Jinny,  she  never  would  set  the 
river  — who's  that  woman  with  Ann  Beasley?" 

"That?  I  reckon  that's  Mrs. — Mrs. — here's 
the  name  in  the  Weekly  Banner:  'Mrs.  Mont- 
gomery Fortescue  Willoughby',  of  Chicago. 
Ann  Beasley's  president  of  the  Searchlight 
Literary  Club  and  Mrs.  Willoughby's  a  big 
club  woman.  The  Searchlight  has  some  extra 
doings  to-morrow  and  Ann  has  invited  Mrs. 
Willoughby  down  to  read  her  paper  on  the — 
the — what  does  the  Banner  say?  Oh — 'her  cel- 
ebrated paper  on  the — the  Zeitgeist  as  Influ- 
enced by  Woman'.  'Mrs.  Willoughby,'  the 
Banner  goes  on  to  say — I  reckon  Mrs.  Beasley 


36     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

got  it  put  in — 'ranks  among  the  most  brilliant 
intellects  of  the  country.  She  is  a  member  of 
nineteen  clubs,  president  of  two,  vice-president 
of  the  Federation  and  a  leader  of  her  sex.' 
What  is  a  Zeitgeist,  Maria?" 

"Hanged  if  I  know,  Jinny,  and  I'll  bet  a 
eooky  Ann  Beasley  never  heard  of  it  before 
this  week.  She  never  had  a  brilliant  intellect, 
you  know  mighty  well. 

"Why  don't  I  belong  to  literary  clubs?  Be- 
cause I  don't  like  'em.  There  isn't  enough 
doing  in  them;  they're  too  slow.  You  spend 
your  time  digging  into  a  lot  of  books  and  then 
writing  out  what  you've  found;  then  it  takes 
you  half  an  hour  to  read  it  and  it's  all  over  till 
next  year.  It's  too  much  work  for  what  you 
get  out  of  it.  Now,  I  like  the  societies  that 
there's  some  meaning  to,  some  liveliness  about. 
I  dropped  into  them  sort  of  naturally,  too,  you 
know.  Hiram  was  an  Odd  Fellow  and  before 
he  died  he  insisted  that  I  should  be  a  Daughter 
of  Rebekah.  I  reckon  he  thought  I  wouldn't 
so  much  mind  his  going  to  lodge  if  I  belonged 
to  a  secret  society,  too.  That  put  me  in  mind 
of  joining  the  Pythian  Sisters  (they  used  to  be 
the  Rathbones)  which  I  could  do,  same  as  you 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     37 

could  if  you  only  would,  because  poor  dear  Pa 
was  a  K.  of  P.  Then,  when  I  married  the  cap- 
tain, he  being  a  member  of  the  G.  A.  R.  and  a 
Red  Man,  it  came  about  that  I  went  into  the 
Order  of  Pocahontas  and  the  Woman's  Relief 
Corps  so's  to  be  in  touch  with  him.  Poor  soul ! 
He  didn't  last  long  afterward. 

"But  I've  enjoyed  those  orders  since,  I  may 
say  I  really  have.  They  take  me  about  a  good 
deal  and  I  meet  a  good  many  people — men  and 
women  both.  I've  generally  held  an  office  of 
some  sort,  and  if  I  do  say  it,  I  have  a  knack  of 
management  and  they  depend  on  me  to  preside 
when  anything  important  is  under  way.  Even 
when  the  head  officer  is  there,  she  is  apt  to  be 
scary  and  uncertain  and  is  glad  to  have  me  take 
her  place." 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  say  at  this  point 
that  Mrs.  Smith  had  the  presiding  manner. 
Even  in  this  hour  of  relaxation,  as  she  rested 
her  ample  person  in  the  easy  chair  and  rocked 
placidly  back  and  forth,  it  was  plain  to  see  that 
she  was  capable  of  command.  It  was  a  matter 
of  common  knowledge  in  the  societies  to  which 
she  belonged  that  when  in  the  chair  she  was 
never  confused  by  a  multiplicity  of  motions, 


38     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

and  that  questions  of  privilege  or  points  of 
order  had  no  terrors  for  her. 

One  thing  about  the  Chicago  visitor  had  im- 
pressed her  and  she  returned  to  it.  "Mrs. — 
Montgomery — Fortescue — Willoughby,"  she 
repeated  meditatively.  "That's  a  well-sound- 
ing name." 

"Rather  long,  seems  to  me,  and  sort  of — 
well,  highty-tighty,"  responded  matter-of-fact 
Mrs.  Dawson.  "I  wouldn't  never  think  of 
spelling  out  Dan'l's  middle  name — Barnabas; 
and  for  that  matter,  he  wouldn't  put  up  with 
it.  Most  folks  around  here,  of  course,  call  me 
'Mrs.  Squire  Dawson',  but  when  I  sign  my 
name  I  jest  put  Mrs.  Dan'l  B.  and  feel  glad 
that  it's  as  short  as  it  is." 

"Oh,  well,  it's  different  with  you,  Jinny. 
You  don't  need  any  more  name,  but  women 
that  you  might  call  public  characters,  like  Mrs. 
Willoughby  and  me,  ought  to  carry  more  sail 
than  just  initials." 

She  went  no  further  into  the  subject  at  this 
time,  perhaps  because  her  sister  already  knew 
her  thoughts  on  the  matter,  but  no  confidence  is 
violated  in  saying  that  Mrs.  Smith's  name  had 
caused  her  much  serious  reflection,  not  to  say 


worriment.  She  felt  herself  handicapped  by 
its  insignificance.  When  she  was  considering 
marriage  with  Captain  James  Smith,  the  one 
thing  that  gave  her  pause  was  his  name,  for  she 
was  even  then  of  some  prominence  in  certain 
public  circles.  The  title  "Captain"  helped, 
however,  and,  together  with  the  facts  that  he 
was  financially  well-fixed  and  had  no  encum- 
brances in  the  way  of  dependent  relatives,  car- 
ried the  day.  But  since  his  death  the  difficulty 
had  confronted  her  again.  Her  baptismal 
name,  unfortunately,  was  of  no  help,  being 
brief  and  commonplace.  She  would  have  liked 
to  use  her  maiden  name  in  connection  with 
Smith,  either  hyphenated  or  not, — her  father's 
family  being  an  old  one  in  the  state  and  very 
well-known — but  "Mrs.  Maria  Ann  Black- 
Smith"  was  not  a  satisfactory  combination. 
Her  first  husband's  name,  "McWilliams",  was 
better,  but  when  Captain  Smith  was  living  and 
she  had  suggested  retaining  it  as  a  part  of  her 
title,  he  had  made  violent  objection.  Now,  she 
hesitated  to  resume  it,  for  although  she  had 
been  fond  of  McWilliams  in  his  time,  and  he 
had  been  a  useful  and  estimable  citizen,  she 
was  aware  that  there  was  nothing  distinguished 


40     'A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

about  him  or  his  calling  to  justify  a  return  to 
his  name  after  so  many  years.  He  had  wished 
to  be  called  a  "mortician",  but  people  would 
persist  in  using-  the  old  term,  "undertaker," 
and  as  such  he  was  remembered. 

"Susan  Miller's  as  dowdy  as  ever,  ain't  she?" 
she  remarked,  looking  after  a  stout  elderly 
lady,  wearing  a  plaid  dress  and  a  bonnet 
slipped  over  to  one  side.  "Wonder  if  John's 
ever  found  out  yet  that  she's  a  sight  to  behold. 
She  wasn't  much  more  presentable  when  she 
was  twenty  than  she  is  now,  and  he  was  neat- 
ness itself,  but  he  thought  she  could  set  the  pat- 
tern for  good  looks  to  the  whole  county.  Gra- 
cious, what  fools  men  are! 

"There's  Doctor  Bob  Elliott.  Dear,  dear, 
how  gray  and  old  he  looks.  I  know  his  age 
exactly;  he's  just  fifty-four — too  young  to 
have  broken  like  that.  But  country  practise  is 
hard  on  a  man." 

Mrs.  Smith,  it  may  be  said  in  this  connec- 
tion, seldom  brought  up  the  matter  of  age,  es- 
pecially her  own,  when  she  was  in  Hawburg. 
It  wasn't  necessary.  She  had  been  born  there, 
her  old  friends  knew  her  age  and  that  was 
enough.  Elsewhere  she  talked  very  frankly 


'A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     41 

on  the  subject.  She  was  accustomed  to  say 
that  she  never  could  see  why  a  woman  should 
wish  to  conceal  her  years;  it  was  a  very  silly 
thing  to  do ;  age  was  no  disgrace  and  she  was 
perfectly  willing  that  anybody  who  cared 
should  know  hers.  And  then  she  would  men- 
tion that  she  was  forty-six  last  January.  In 
Hawburg  at  this  time  the  old  residents  recalled 
that  she  was  fifty-three. 

She  leaned  forward,  pushed  the  curtain 
slightly  aside  and  looked  intently  at  a  slim, 
plainly  dressed,  pale  young  woman  walking 
slowly  by. 

"Well,  I  do  declare,"  she  said,  "if  that  isn't 
Alice  Rogers!  I  haven't  seen  her  for — it  must 
be  a  year  or  two — and  I  hardly  knew  her.  She's 
got  so  old-looking.  Doesn't  look  a  day  less 
than  thirty-five  and  she's — let's  see — she's  just 
a  year  older  than  my  Periwinkle  and  Perry's 
twenty-seven  and  looks  twenty.  Been  married 
five  years,  too.  What  ails  Alice — been  sick  or 
had  a  disappointment?" 

"No,  she  hasn't  been  sick,"  replied  Mrs. 
Dawson,  as  she  poised  the  needle  above  the 
yawning  hole  in  the  heel  of  the  sock  pulled 
over  her  hand,  "and  she  couldn't  have  had  a 


42     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

disappointment,  for,  to  my  certain  knowledge, 
she's  never  had  a  beau  in  her  life.  I  guess  she's 
just  tired  out  with  teaching;  she's  been  at  it 
steady  for  ten  years,  you  know.  Alice  is  a 
very  religious  girl,  too.  Goes  to  church  twice 
every  Sunday,  and  to  Sunday-school,  and  to 
prayer-meeting  and  Christian  Endeavor  and 
missionary  meetings.  Don't  you  think,  Maria, 
that  too  much  religion  for  young  girls  is 
aging?  Not,"  she  added  hastily,  "that  I  have 
anything  against  church-going,  being  a  pro- 
fessor myself." 

"I  reckon  it  ain't  altogether  teaching  nor  yet 
religion  that  ails  the  girl,"  was  the  reply.  "It 
ain't  so  much  what  she's  got  or  what  she  does, 
as  what  she  hasn't  got  and  doesn't  do.  When 
you  come  to  think  about  it,  Jinny,  it's  easy 
enough  to  see  why  Alice  is  older  than  her  years. 
There  she's  lived  nearly  all  her  life,  ever  since 
her  mother  died,  with  that  family  of  old 
women,  her  father's  cousins  and  aunts — two  or 
three  of  'em  nearly  bedridden  and  the  others 
not  more'n  half  alive — and  not  a  man  in  the 
house.  Now  I  hold  that  it  ain't  wholesome  for 
a  woman  to  live  where  there  ain't  any  men 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     43 

about.  She  gets  queer  and  cranky.  If  one  o' 
those  cousins  had  been  a  man,  or  one  o'  the  old 
aunts  an  uncle,  Alice'd  be  more  like  folks  this 
minute.  I  don't  mean  that  every  woman  ought 
to  get  married  whether  or  no — marrying's  a 
matter  o'  taste ;  but  she  ought  to  have  brothers 
or  male  kin  o'  some  kind  to  sort  o'  keep  her  in 
balance.  You've  noticed  that  a  girl  with  a  lot 
o'  brothers  isn't  likely  to  marry  so  early  as  a 
girl  without  any — other  things  being  equal — 
and  she's  likely  to  use  a  good  deal  better  judg- 
ment. She's  got  acquainted  with  the  ways  of 
the  creatures  and  knows  how  to  size  'em  up. 
Anyway,  I'm  free  to  say  that  I  like  a  man 
about  the  house.  It's  a  comfort  to  know  he's 
there  in  time  o'  thunder-storms,  for  one  thing. 
It  seems  safer.  You've  never  known  the  feel- 
ing of  being  without  one,  with  the  squire  and 
the  four  boys  always  about;  and,  for  that  mat- 
ter, neither  have  I.  Since  the  captain  passed 
on,  Periwinkle's  husband  has  always  been  un- 
der the  same  roof  with  me,  and  then  I  meet  a 
good  many  men  folks  one  way  and  another  as 
I  go  about;  but  Joe's  talking  of  taking  Perry 
and  going  to  Chicago  where  he's  got  a  good 


44     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

opening,  and  then  I  shall  be  alone."  She 
sighed  heavily,  partly,  no  doubt,  from  lack  of 
breath. 

"The  old  Rogers  ladies,"  she  resumed,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "have  lived  by  themselves 
so  many  years,  so  shut  in  and  sort  o'  dismal, 
that  they  don't  rightly  know  what  real  living 
is,  and  haven't  an  idea  what  an  unnatural  life 
Alice  is  leading.  If  she  had  a  beau,  chances 
are  they  wouldn't  treat  him  right." 

"But,  Maria,  I  don't  think  it's  the  fault  of 
the  old  ladies,"  protested  Mrs.  Dawson  mildly. 
"Somehow,  Alice  never  seemed  to  be  one  of  the 
girls  who  cared  for  boys'  company.  She  was 
always  so  stand-offish  even  as  a  young  thing, 
that  no  boy'd  'a'  dared — " 

"Jane  Dawson,  you  surprise  me,  the  little 
knowledge  you  show  about  women  folks. 
They're  all  alike.  I'll  dare  to  say  that  Alice 
has  built  just  as  many  castles  with  herself  and 
a  lovely  man  in — maybe  no  particular  man,  but 
just  a  man — as  any  other  girl.  She  ain't  so 
unlike  her  mother  as  not  to  do  it.  Julia  was 
real  flirtatious,  you  remember." 

"Why  hasn't  she  shown  some  signs,  then?" 

"Signs!  h'm!     It's  likely  there  were  signs 


A   HAWBURG   SENSATION     r45 

enough  for  men  that  had  any  gumption. 
They've  got  so  they  expect  a  woman  fairly  to 
invite  them  to  come  and  marry  her  before 
they'll  take  notice.  I  hold  that  a  woman  has  to 
do  some  of  the  courting  if  she  expects  to  get 
the  man  she  wants ;  but,  as  I  said  before,  Alice 
doesn't  know  how.  There  she's  been  shut  up 
with  only  women  at  home  and  with  a  lot  of 
children  in  the  daytime,  and  maybe  never  see- 
ing a  man  to  speak  to  except  the  janitor,  or  old 
Grandpa  Sibley  next  door,  or  Uncle  Eb  Jones, 
from  week's  end  to  week's  end.  And  being  so 
shy  and  backward,  the  young  folks,  meaning 
no  harm,  have  just  left  her  out,  and  she's  had 
nothing  to  liven  her  up,  and  she's  fading  be- 
fore her  time.  Of  course,  there  are  girls,  like 
my  Periwinkle,  for  instance,  that  such  circum- 
stances wouldn't  have  made  so  much  difference 
to.  The  beaux  couldn't  have  been  kept  away; 
but  a  girl  like  Alice  would  be  influenced." 

"But  the  children,  Maria;  don't  you  think 
they  make  up  for  a  good  many  things?  It 
seems  to  me  that  a  woman  who  has  children 
with  her  all  the  time  ought  to  be  bright  and 
lively." 

"Well,  Jinny,  you  are  a  simpleton,"  said 


46     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

Mrs.  Smith  with  the  freedom  of  speech  only 
possible  between  members  of  a  family.  "Your 
four  boys  when  they  were  little  kept  you  lively 
enough  maybe,  but  you  were  glad  to  have  them 
in  school  away  from  you  five  days  in  the  week. 
How  do  you  s'pose  you  would  have  felt  with 
fifty  to  look  after — not  all  of  'em  little  dearies 
either,  by  any  manner  o'  means,  but  most  of 
'em  brats?"  (It  is  painful  to  have  to  record 
such  coarse  language  but  what  Mrs.  Smith 
really  said  was  "brats".)  "Your  own  young 
ones  you  could  spank  when  they  needed  it  and 
hug  them  the  next  minute  if  you  wanted  to, 
and  they'd  think  all  the  more  of  you,  but  the 
teacher  can't.  She's  got  to  treat  'em  all  alike, 
good  or  bad,  and  the  parents  think  she  ought  to 
love  'em  all  and  be  glad  of  the  privilege  of 
their  company.  Law,  law!  And  most  of  the 
little  tykes  spending  half  their  time  thinking  o* 
ways  to  be  mean  to  her.  And  if  she  did  love 
'em  all  and  they  loved  back,  they'd  go  into  an- 
other grade  next  term  and  forget  about  her, 
and  she'd  have  to  worry  with  a  fresh  batch. 
But  still  folks  wonder  why  teachers  ain't  gay 
and  skittish  when  they're  out  o'  school! 

"I  sort  o'  feel  guilty  about  Alice,"  she  went 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     47 

on.  "I  thought  so  much  of  her  mother  and 
meant  to  look  after  the  girl  a  little.  I  used  to 
think  about  inviting  her  down  in  vacations,  but 
Periwinkle  had  such  a  lot  o'  gay  company 
around  always,  and  somehow  the  time  never 
seemed  to  come.  Are  you  sure  there  isn't  some 
man  she's  taken  a  fancy  to?" 

It  was  obvious  that  on  the  same  principle  on 
which  the  French  say,  "Seek  the  woman,"  when 
a  man  is  in  trouble,  Mrs.  Smith's  experience  of 
life  led  her  to  suspect  a  man  as  the  chief  cause 
when  a  woman's  spirits  were  downcast. 

"I  don't  know  who  it  could  be,  I'm  sure,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Dawson.  "We  were  talking  in 
Sewing  Society  just  the  other  day  about  how 
few  men  of  the  marrying  kind  are  in  the  burg 
now.  Just  as  soon  as  the  boys  get  old  enough, 
off  they  go  to  the  city  or  over  to  the  gas  towns 
and—" 

"Who's  that  good-looking  fellow  in  the  gay 
rig  coming  down  Main  Street,  Jinny?" 

"That?  Oh,  that's  Tom  Hood,  old  Billy 
Hood's  nephew,  the  one  he  left  all  his  prop- 
erty to,  you  know.  He  used  to  spend  a  good 
deal  of  time  here,  off  and  on,  before  Billy 
died,  and  he's  lived  here  now  for  three  years, 


48     A  HAWBURG   SENSATION 

but  I  reckon  you've  never  happened  to  see  him. 
He  spends  a  good  deal  of  time  out  on  the 
farm.  He's  running  the  canning  factory,  too. 
He  has  a  big  property  and  the  men  folks  say 
he  looks  after  it  well.  When  he  has  time  he 
goes  with  the  girls — first  one  and  then  another. 
He's  the  catch  of  the  county  and  all  the  girls 
have  been  after  him,  but  he  doesn't  seem  in- 
clined to  settle  down.  I  do  hear  lately  that  he's 
going  pretty  steady  with  one  of  the  Parker 
girls  up  Possum  Glory  way. 

" — 'Alice  Rogers?'  My,  no,  Maria.  She 
can't  have  any  notion  of  him.  I  don't  suppose 
they  know  each  other  to  speak  to.  She  isn't  his 
kind.  He  likes  the  gay  dressy  girls.  Come  to 
think  of  it,  maybe  she's  taken  a  notion  to 
Brother  Considine  since  he  was  a  widower.  I 
don't  know  why  I  didn't  think  of  him  before. 
A  number  of  women  I  could  name,  in  and  out 
of  his  congregation,  have  eyes  for  him  if  she 
hasn't." 

"Brother  Considine — the  Reverend  Philan- 
der? Why,  when  did  his  wife  die?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Smith  with  lively  interest. 

"Oh,  five  or  six  months  ago;  didn't  I  men- 
tion it  in  a  letter?  Well,  mebbe  not,  and  I 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     49 

guess  you  haven't  been  up  since.  Yes,  she  died 
of  pneumonia.  He  took  on  terrible,  but  that's 
no  sign  he  won't  be  looking  around  for  a  new 
partner  in  good  time." 

"But  he's  too  old  for  Alice  Rogers,  Jinny; 
he  must  be  all  of  fifty-five." 

"Maria  Ann  Smith,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Daw- 
son,  not  sorry,  perhaps,  for  a  chance  to  do  her 
share  of  sisterly  criticism,  "I  should  think 
you'd  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  no  man  is 
ever  too  old  for  a  woman  if  she  wants  him,  or 
if  he  can  get  her.  There's  tastes  and  tastes, 
though,"  she  conceded,  "and  I  shouldn't  sup- 
pose Alice  would  lose  sleep  and  get  peaked 
over  a  man  of  that  age.  But  then  he's  a 
preacher  and  not  bad-looking,  if  he  isn't 
young,  and  she's  religious  and  there's  no  tell- 
ing." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  it  would  be  a  suitable 
match  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Smith  with  decision. 
"Reverend  Philander  Considine,"  she  mur- 
mured after  a  pause,  and  half  to  herself. 
"Phi-lan-der  Considine;  that's  a  good  mouth- 
filling  name." 

Mrs.  Dawson  glanced  at  her  sister  with 
shrewd  inquiry  in  her  eyes,  but  said  nothing. 


50     A    HAWBURG    SENSATION 

At  that  moment  Squire  Dawson  himself  came 
noisily  in,  seeking  his  wife's  services  to  bind  up 
a  cut  finger.  He  heard  the  familiar  name. 

"Considine,  yes,"  he  exclaimed  with  loud 
facetiousness,  and  the  brutal  frankness  of  a 
brother-in-law;  "yes,  he's  a  widower,  Mari', 
just  beginning  to  take  notice.  You'd  better 
set  your  cap  for  him.  He's  got  a  good  chunk 
o'  property  for  a  preacher — from  his  first  wife, 
I  guess.  The  last  one  was  his  second,  you 
know.  They  say  he's  had  a  call  to  a  church 
down  to  the  capital  for  next  year.  At  your 
age  you  can't  expect  to  do  better." 

Mrs.  Smith  looked  annoyed. 

"I  am  not  setting  my  cap  for  anybody, 
Squire,  I'd  have  you  know,"  she  said  with  a 
cold  dignity  and  a  look  which,  if  she  had  been 
presiding  over  a  meeting,  would  have  made 
any  woman  who  dared  to  offer  an  obstructive 
motion  wish  she  had  not  been  born.  The 
squire  only  "haw-hawed"  loudly  and  uncon- 
cernedly, so  differing  is  the  effect  of  woman's 
most  impressive  manner  on  those  whom  she 
desires  to  overawe. 

At  this  moment  Alice  Rogers,  on  Her  way 
down  the  street,  stopped  directly  before  the 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     51 

window  to  speak  to  a  child  and  to  point  out  to 
it  something  in  a  book.  "Can't  get  away  from 
school  even  when  she's  outside,"  said  Mrs. 
Smith,  her  eyes  fixed  critically  upon  the  girl. 
While  she  stood  there  talking,  Tom  Hood 
drove  slowly  by  again.  He  was  alone  and  not 
so  absorbed  in  thought  but  that  he  saw  and 
greeted  genially  an  old  man  who  was  passing, 
yet  he  glanced  at  Alice  with  the  indifference 
one  shows  to  a  stranger  who  is  in  no  way  out 
of  the  common.  "He  must  know  who  she  is," 
commented  the  observer  back  of  the  curtains. 
"Everybody  knows  everybody  else  in  this  little 
town;  he  just  hasn't  any  eyes  for  her,  because 
she  doesn't  know  how  to  make  him  see." 

Unconscious  of  being  watched,  the  girl 
turned  from  the  child  and  looked  after  the  man 
in  the  gaily  painted  high  cart,  a  deep  flush 
creeping  over  her  face  as  she  stood  there. 

"Hm-m,  well!"  said  the  shrewd  watcher. 
"What  if  she  hasn't  been  so  much  as  intro- 
duced to  him!  A  cat  may  look  at  a  king,  and 
a  girl  in  a  village  where  there  is  such  a  hand- 
some, likely  young  fellow  can't  be  hindered 
from  having  her  thoughts  about  him.  Poor 
soul!" 


52     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

Mrs.  Smith  remarked  in  a  careless  manner 
to  her  sister  that  evening  when  the  squire  was 
not  in  hearing,  that  she  believed  she'd  like  to 
go  to  prayer-meeting.  Although  she'd  gone  to 
the  Presbyterian  church  to  please  the  captain, 
she  said,  and  hadn't  had  the  heart  to  make  any 
change  since,  yet  she  had  no  desire  to  conceal 
that  she  felt  most  at  home  in  the  Methodist 
church  where  she  was  brought  up. 

On  their  way  down  the  street  when  the  hour 
arrived,  they  were  greeted  by  the  irregular 
tapping  of  a  drum.  As  they  approached,  the 
sounds  grew  more  weird  and  resolved  them- 
selves into  those  of  a  fife  and  a  banjo  in  addi- 
tion to  the  drum  and  the  voices  of  half  a  dozen 
singers — the  music,  in  short,  of  the  Salvation 
Army. 

"I  should  not  suppose  the  Salvationers 
would  find  any  work  for  them  in  this  little 
town,"  commented  Mrs.  Smith. 

"They've  only  been  here  a  day  or  so,  and  I've 
heard  they're  on  a  prospecting  tour  through 
the  state  to  find  where  they're  needed  most," 
replied  her  sister. 

The  unique  methods  of  the  little  detachment, 
composed  of  two  women  and  four  men,  were 


sufficiently  new  to  Hawburgers  to  attract 
something  of  a  crowd,  when  they  stopped  at  a 
street  corner  for  their  regular  services.  As 
Mrs.  Smith  and  Mrs.  Dawson  reached  the  spot 
they  paused.  The  band  had  at  once  engaged 
in  song. 

"We  love  Salvation  warfare,  to  fight  is  our  de- 
light, 

And  when  the  battle's  over  here  we'll  wear  a 
crown  so  bright; 

Till  then,  with  shield  and  song,  we're  march- 
ing bold  and  free, 

And  blow  on  blow  we'll  smite  the  foe,  from 
the  General  down  to  me. 

We'll  push  the  war,  that's  what  we're  for, 
from  the  General  down  to  me." 

It  was  a  lively  tune,  the  voices  of  the  singers 
were  rather  cracked,  and  irreverent  ones  in  the 
surrounding  group  laughed. 

Alice  Rogers,  who,  like  other  women,  had 
halted  on  her  way  to  prayer-meeting,  did  not 
smile.  Presently,  when  the  familiar  words, 
Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee,  were  announced, 
and  the  uncertain  voices  were  raised  again,  an- 
other voice,  clear,  sweet,  musical,  joined  in, 
lifted  and  led  the  rest  and  soared  triumphantly 
on. 


54 

"Then  with  my  waking  thoughts 

Bright  with  Thy  praise, 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Altars  I'll  raise ; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee." 

Even  the  Salvationists  turned  in  surprise. 
Alice  Rogers  was  the  singer,  and  as  she  stood 
there  with  cheeks  flushed,  eyes  brilliant  with  ex- 
citement and  red  lips  parted,  she  was  very 
unlike  the  pale  demure  girl  who  had  passed 
down  the  street  two  hours  before.  To  at  least 
two  members  of  the  group  the  changed  face 
was  a  revelation.  Mrs.  Smith,  whose  eyes  few 
things  escaped,  noted  Pastor  Considine's  start 
of  surprise  and  the  low  whistle  indulged  in  by 
Tom  Hood,  both  of  these  gentlemen  having 
been  drawn  accidentally  into  the  unaccustomed 
crowd  like  the  rest. 

"It's  the  first  time  either  of  'em,  I'll  dare  to 
say,  ever  thought  of  her  as  a  woman  and  not  as 
the  school-teacher,"  said  the  discerning  Mrs. 
Smith  to  her  sister. 

Suddenly  realizing  that  she  was  attracting 
attention,  the  girl  drew  back,  abashed,  and 
went  on  her  way  to  the  church.  But  next  even- 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     55 

ing  she  was  with  the  Salvationists  again.  Some- 
how, in  the  meantime,  she  had  familiarized  her- 
self with  their  strange  songs  and  when  the 
leader  started  them  she  joined  in  again  with 
confidence  and  with  apparent  disregard  for  the 
wondering  looks  of  the  villagers  standing 
about. 

It  was  evidently  the  purpose  of  the  adjutant 
in  charge  to  have  a  "scare"  service,  and  he 
opened  with  the  hymn: 

"You'll  see  the  Great  White  Throne, 
And  stand  before  it  all  alone 
Waiting  for  the  King  to  call, 
When  the  stars  begin  to  fall! 
My  Lord!  What  a  mourning! 

My  Lord!  What  a  mourning! 
My  Lord!  What  a  mourning, 
When  the  stars  begin  to  fall!" 

The  exhortation  which  followed  was  in  keep- 
ing. The  adjutant  had  a  high  rasping  voice, 
and  the  grammatical  construction  of  his  speech 
would  not  bear  criticism ;  but  he  was  fluent,  he 
was  earnest,  he  plainly  believed  the  theology  he 
advanced,  and  when  he  called  on  his  hearers  to 
repent  of  their  sins;  when  he  pointed  out  to 
them  that  though  they  might  believe  they  were 
safe  because  they  were  free  from  the  vices  and 


56     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

degradations  known  in  cities,  they  were,  by 
reason  of  this  very  self-satisfaction,  in  danger 
of  hell-fire.  When  he  assured  them  in  plain 
unvarnished  terms  that  they  were  sinners  and 
in  danger,  that  the  wrath  of  God  was  everlast- 
ing and  the  fires  of  the  future  hot — when,  with 
tremendous  seriousness,  he  said  these  things 
even  the  flippant  daredevils  among  the  listen- 
ers ceased  to  jeer  and  only  smiled  uneasily. 

Alice  Rogers  stood  near  him,  but  a  f  ar-oif 
uplifted  expression  in  her  eyes,  a  half -smile  on 
her  lips,  led  observers  to  doubt  if  she  heard 
what  was  said.  It  was  only  with  the  singing 
that  she  roused  to  attention.  When  the  adju- 
tant had  warned  and  admonished  vehemently, 
and  had  then  pointed  out  the  way  of  escape, 
the  songs  chosen  began  to  be  of  a  more  inviting 
sort,  and  in  these  the  girl  lifted  up  her  voice 
again  with  fervor.  To  the  tune  of  Old  Black 
Joe  they  sang — 

"In  sorrow  He's  my  comfort,  in  trouble  He's 

my  stay, 

He  tells  me  every  care  on  him  to  roll. 
He's  the  Lily  of  the  Valley, 
The  Bright  and  Morning  Star, 
He's  the  Fairest  of  Ten  Thousand  to  my 

soul." 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     57 

To  the  tune,  'She  Was  Bred  in  Old  Kentucky, 
rang  out  the  words: 

"I  am  neither  rich  nor  lucky,  but  I  know  I'm 

saved  to-day; 

My  sins  are  all  forgiven,  I  am  bound  for  end- 
less day; 

When  I  cried,  'Lord  Jesus,  save  me/ 
Joy  and  peace  and  light  He  gave  me, 
And-He'11-do-the-very-same-for-you." 

The  next  night  and  the  next  Alice  Rogers 
was  with  the  Salvation  band  and  sang  with 
them.  The  village  people  talked  and  won- 
dered about  it;  most  of  them  considered  it  a 
highly  improper  proceeding  and  were  quite 
scandalized,  some  going  so  far  as  to  say  that  as 
a  teacher  in  charge  of  innocent  young  children 
she  ought  to  be  made  to  behave.  Before  this 
suggestion  had  taken  formal  shape  the  little 
town  was  electrified  by  the  news  that  she  had 
resigned  her  school  and,  without  consulting 
any  one  so  far  as  could  be  learned,  not  even 
her  pastor,  had  gone  to  Chicago,  in  company 
with  the  little  band  of  workers  to  join  the  Sal- 
vation Army.  The  girl's  relatives,  being  ques- 
tioned, could  only  say  that  she  had  explained 
to  them  that  she  felt  it  to  be  her  duty,  and  that 
as  they  did  not  need  her  services,  financially  or 


58     'A   HAWBURG   SENSATION 

otherwise,  considered  herself  at  liberty  to  go. 
It  was  the  greatest  sensation  Hawburg  had 
enjoyed  for  many  a  day.  Everybody  talked 
of  it,  surmised,  criticized,  expressed  opin- 
ions. All  agreed  that  she  had  made  a  terrible 
mistake  in  giving  up  a  good  paying  position 
and  going  off  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth  as 
the  Salvation  Army  people  did,  maybe  not 
having  enough  to  eat  half  the  time.  They  be- 
lieved she  would  be  sorry  for  it  right  soon,  but 
by  that  time  it  would  be  too  late  to  get  her 
school  back.  Not  a  few  expressed  the  belief 
that  she  must  have  had  a  touch  of  insanity. 
One  old  lady  alone  ventured  to  suggest  that 
possibly  she  was  called  by  the  Lord  as  minis- 
ters are  said  to  be,  but  her  idea  was  not  received 
with  favor.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Considine,  be- 
ing asked  what  he  thought,  expressed  himself 
as  sincerely  grieved  that  Sister  Rogers  had 
acted  upon  impulse  and  without  advising  with 
him.  He  felt  that  she  had  been  rash  and  that  it 
would  have  been  better  for  her  to  remain  and 
labor  in  the  home  vineyard.  He  explained  that 
he  did  not  mean  that  she  should  engage  in  home 
missionary  work,  but  that  her  occupation  of 
school-teaching,  if  conscientiously  and  prayer- 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     59 

fully  carried  on,  might  be  a  means  of  grace 
both  to  herself  and  her  pupils. 

The  event  was  the  subject  of  discussion  at 
the  Dawson  dinner-table  a  day  or  so  after  its 
occurrence,  Tom  Hood,  who  was  present,  hav- 
ing been  invited  in  unceremoniously  by  the 
hospitable  squire,  showing  much  interest.  As 
might  have  been  expected,  Mrs.  Smith  was  not 
slow  to  express  her  views. 

"If  you  want  to  know  why  that  girl  did  what 
she  did,  I'll  tell  you,"  she  declared  with  vigor, 
holding  her  fork  as  if  it  were  a  gavel,  and 
rapping  the  table.  "I'll  tell  you.  The  time 
had  come  when  she  had  to  make  a  dash  out  of 
the  box  or  something  would  break.  There  she'd 
been  for  ten  of  the  best  years  of  her  life — the 
flower  of  her  youth — without  any  of  the  things 
that  rightly  belong  to  youth,  mewed  up  in  a 
schoolhouse  all  day  with  a  lot  of  tiresome 
children,  and  mewed  up  at  home  the  rest  of  the 
time  with  five  dismal  old  women  who  only 
talked  about  their  ailments  and  the  victuals 
that  didn't  agree  with  'em.  Ten  years  without 
a  man  in  the  house!" 

"Horrible!"  interpolated  Tom  Hood  with  a 
laugh.  She  did  not  heed  his  interruption. 


60     A   HAWBURG   SENSATION 

"Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "Alice  thought*  it 
was  religion,  the  call  of  duty  and  all  that, 
when  this  opening  came ;  but  what  it  really  was 
was  the  necessity  of  a  change  in  her  life — 
of  a  chance  to  draw  a  free  breath.  A  man, 
now,  in  her  case,  supposing  a  man  would  stay 
patiently  in  a  cage  half  that  time,  would  have 
broken  the  monotony  most  likely  by  filling 
himself  full  of  whisky,  going  off  to  some  other 
town  and  painting  it  red.  And  I've  known 
women  with  less  strain  on  their  nerves  to  try 
the  river." 

"How  you  do  go  on,  Maria  Ann,"  protested 
Mrs.  Dawson. 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that  Mrs.  Daw- 
son  was  right ;  also,  that  however  sound  Maria 
Ann's  ideas  were,  her  language,  when  she  was 
not  acting  in  an  official  capacity  was  not  ele- 
gant. 

"But  what  I  don't  understand,"  said  Tom 
Hood,  obviously  ready  to  pursue  the  subject; 
"what  I  don't  understand  is  where  that  pretty 
girl  has  hidden  herself  all  these  years.  She's 
a  beauty,  and  beauties  are  scarce  around  here. 
Why  didn't  I  know  her?  I  suppose  I  must  have 
seen  her,  but  I  positively  could  not  recall  that 


A   HAWBURO    SENSATION     61 

I'd  ever  had  a  look  at  the  girl  before  I  saw  her 
in  the  Salvation  crowd  the  other  night." 

"Some  men,"  remarked  Mrs.  Smith  oracu- 
larly, "some  men  are  afflicted  one  way  and 
some  another.  Some  are  color-blind  and  some 
never  discover  a  woman  worth  knowing  until 
a  flag  is  waved  in  their  faces.  Plenty  of  women 
are  competent  to  do  their  own  flag-waving  but 
some  have  to  have  it  done  for  them,  and  Alice 
is  one  of  this  kind.  I  wish  I  had  taken  her  in 
hand  long  ago  as  I  meant  to." 

She  said  this  with  real  regret  in  her  tones. 
At  all  events,  whatever  had  been  the  case  in  the 
past,  Alice  Rogers  could  no  longer  be  ignored 
by  Hawburgers.  From  her  position  as  nobody 
in  particular  she  had  suddenly  become  an  ob- 
ject of  deepest  interest.  All  her  characteristics 
were  discussed,  and  it  was  realized  by  all  that 
she  was  a  person  of  many  merits  and  virtues 
and  that  she  had  hardly  been  appreciated  at 
her  true  worth.  She  had  made  an  impression 
at  last,  and  one  likely  to  remain. 

While  the  sensation  was  still  intense,  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Considine  suddenly  determined 
to  go  to  Chicago,  making  a  long  deferred  visit 
to  his  sister  the  excuse  to  the  church  officials. 


62     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

"It  won't  do  him  any  good,"  said  the  astute 
widow  of  Captain  Smith  to  herself,  when  she 
heard  of  the  trip.  "Alice  Rogers  will  have 
nothing  to  do  with  him.  He's  discovered  her 
too  late." 

Evidently  he  had,  for  he  came  back  wearing 
the  chastened  look  that  had  distinguished  him 
after  Mrs.  Considine  had  been,  as  the  Salva- 
tion Army  would  have  put  it,  promoted  to 
glory.  The  women  of  his  congregation,  lack- 
ing the  discerning  powers  of  Mrs.  Smith,  whis- 
pered admiringly  to  each  other  that  he  was  still 
a-grieving. 

What  had  passed  between  him  and  Alice 
Rogers  was  never  made  known.  That  he  had 
had  an  interview  with  her  was  certain,  for  one 
of  the  young  Dawsons  on  his  first  visit  to  the 
city  on  the  lake,  wandering  about  in  a  remote 
quarter,  saw  the  minister  draw  the  girl  from 
her  place  in  a  street  band  of  Salvationists  and 
in  a  quiet  spot  talk  with  her  long  and  earnestly. 
Allusions  to  her  in  his  presence  after  this 
brought  only  a  sigh  and  a  gesture  indicating 
that  he  considered  the  subject  unprofitable  and 
washed  his  hands  of  responsibility. 

Soon   after   Mr.    Considine's   return   from 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION      63 

Chicago,  Mrs.  Dawson  invited  him  to  supper. 
This  was  of  her  own  motion  and  not  at  the  sug- 
gestion of  Mrs.  Smith.  Between  sisters  of 
sympathetic  nature  there  is  not  always  need 
for  words.  As  Mrs.  Dawson  was  noted  for  her 
excellent  cookery,  and  as  the  entertainment  of 
the  visitor  in  the  absence  of  the  squire  fell 
mainly  to  Mrs.  Smith,  who  made  herself  espe- 
cially agreeable,  the  good  man  went  home  visi- 
bly cheered. 

A  week  or  so  after  this,  Mrs.  Smith,  as  an 
officer  of  the  order  of  Pythian  Sisters,  had  bus- 
iness in  Chicago.  While  there  she  resolved  to 
look  up  Alice  Rogers  and  satisfy  herself  as  to 
her  welfare.  She  had  some  trouble  in  finding 
her.  On  her  first  call  at  the  Army's  general 
headquarters  she  was  directed  to  a  substation 
on  Polk  Street,  near  Clark;  going  there  she 
learned  that  Alice  was  at  that  time  detailed  to 
wait  upon  a  woman  dying  of  tuberculosis  in  a 
remote  part  of  the  city,  but  that  she  would 
probably  report  at  the  station  that  evening. 
Not  to  be  thwarted,  Mrs.  Smith,  after  a  leis- 
urely dinner  at  the  hotel,  took  her  way  down 
Polk  Street  again  and  arrived  there  to  find  a 
group  of  Salvation  "soldiers"  on  the  street 


64     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

ready  to  begin  service.  She  drew  closer,  and 
standing  in  the  shadow,  looked  for  Alice.  She 
was  there  in  the  army  uniform,  coal-scuttle 
bonnet  and  all,  but  the  plain  garb  did  not  hide 
her  new-born  charm.  There  was  no  excitement 
now,  no  feverish  color ;  she  was  rather  pale,  and 
there  was  a  shadow  under  her  eyes  as  from  loss 
of  sleep,  but  something  was  in  her  face  that 
had  not  been  there  when  she  went  about  her 
daily  routine  in  Hawburg.  There  was  expres- 
sion, a  suggestion  that  if  she  spoke  it  would  be 
with  animation,  even  enthusiasm — a  look,  in 
short,  as  if  she  were  alive  through  and  through. 
It  was  a  subtle  change,  but  it  had  transformed 
her  from  a  woman  of  negative  prettiness  into 
one  beautiful  and  attractive.  The  human 
driftwood  that  made  up  the  changing  crowd 
drawn  together  by  the  music — wrecks  of 
women,  clods  of  men,  thieves,  tramps,  many 
of  them — all  turned  toward  her.  Some  envied, 
some  sneered  and  leered,  perhaps,  but  all  ad- 
mired and  all  wondered  that  she  should  be 
there,  yet  were  perhaps  the  better  for  knowing 
that  one  like  her  was  willing  to  come  among 
them.  It  was  to  her  they  listened  when  sing- 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION      65 

ing  began,  though  this  time  hers  was  not  the 
only  sweet  voice. 

"It  was  for  me  that  Jesus  died 
On  the  Cross  of  Calvary, — • 
Of  Calvary — of  Calvary. 
It  was  for  me  that  Jesus  died 
On  the  Cross  of  Calvary." 

For  a  moment,  at  least,  perhaps  the  thieves  and 
thugs  and  waifs  knew  that  the  message  was 
for  them. 

From  her  point  of  vantage  Mrs.  Smith  was 
surprised,  and  yet  not  surprised,  to  discover  on 
the  edge  of  the  crowd  no  less  a  person  than 
Tom  Hood,  of  Hawburg. 

"And  he  pretended  that  he  had  been  having 
urgent  business  in  Cincinnati,  lately,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "The  scamp!  I  might  have  guessed 
what  he  was  up  to." 

Presently  when  the  Salvationists  were  on 
their  knees  on  the  pavement,  with  their  leader 
engaged  in  vociferous  prayer,  Mrs.  Smith 
stepped  quietly  around  and  touched  the  young 
man  on  the  arm. 

He  looked  startled,  embarrassed,  and  at  first 


66     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

greatly  disconcerted,  then  put  a  bold  face  on 
the  matter  and  laughed. 

"You  caught  me  fair  and  square,"  he  said, 
"and  I  may  as  well  own  up.  Come  back  here 
with  me." 

Seated  in  a  convenient  doorway  while  the 
praying  and  exhortation  went  on,  he  told  his 
story. 

"I'm  here  because  that  girl's  here,  as  I  sup- 
pose I  hardly  need  to  say.  I  want  to  get  her 
out  of  this.  I  want  her  to  marry  me.  I  want 
to  take  her  away  from  these  horrible  surround- 
ings. Think  of  the  girl,  that  refined,  delicate, 
shy  girl,  touching  elbows  with  those  damned 
creatures  over  there — scum  of  the  earth ;  going 
into  their  abominable  homes,  nursing  them 
when  they're  sick  and  putting  herself  at  their 
beck  and  call!  And  that  isn't  the  worst  of  it. 
Of  course  I  know  that  such  people  can't  really 
hurt  her,  but  think  of  her,  think  of  Alice  Rog- 
ers down-town  selling  War  Crys  in  shops  and 
offices!  She  does  it;  they  have  to  do  it.  They 
know  her  now — men  down  there — as  the  pretty 
Salvation  lass,  and  buy  her  papers  just  to  get 
a  chance  to  speak  to  her.  Lord!  It  drives  me 
frantic." 

"They're   the   Lord's   creatures,"   observed 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION      G7 

Mrs.  Smith  piously,  nodding  her  head  toward 
the  crowd,  "and  they  surely  need  saving. 
Somebody  has  to  undertake  the  work." 

"I  don't  know  whether  the  Lord  wants  such 
specimens  in  the  other  world  or  not,"  the  young 
man  returned  recklessly.  "Anyway,  if  I  can 
help  it — and  I  will — she  shan't  waste  her  life 
on  them." 

"Have  you  asked  her  to  marry  you?" 

1  'Asked  her  to  marry  me?'  Yes,  the  first 
time  I  talked  to  her." 

"Considering,  my  son,  that  you  had  never 
spoken  to  her  a  month  ago,  don't  you  think  you 
were  rather  hasty?" 

"Oh,  I  made  a  bluff.  I  pretended  that  we'd 
always  known  each  other;  that  I'd  admired  her 
without  daring  to  say  so,  don't  you  know?  I'm 
afraid  she  didn't  believe  me.  Anyway,  she 
won't  have  a  thing  to  do  with  me.  Says  she's 
taken  up  her  life's  work  and  is  happy  with  it. 
Say,  don't  you  think,  honestly,  that  she'd 
stand  a  better  chance  of  being  happy  with  me 
than  with  the  Salvation  Army?  I'm  not  a  bad 
sort  of  fellow  and  I'd  take  good  care  of  her." 

Mrs.  Smith  assured  him  that  her  sympathies 
were  all  with  him,  but  advised  him  that  he 
must  give  the  girl  time. 


68     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

"Did  you  really  expect  her  to  say  yes  the 
first  time  you  asked  her?"  she  inquired. 

"Well,  no;  I  can  hardly  say  that  I  did,"  he 
acknowledged  reluctantly,  laughing  a  little. 
"No,  perhaps  not;  but  I  can't  bear  to  wait 
while  she's  mixed  up  with  this  sort  of  thing,  or 
to  go  home  and  leave  her  here." 

They  were  singing  something  at  this  mo- 
ment to  the  tune  of  Just  Tell  Them  That  You 
Saw  Me. 

"Don't  let  her  see  you  to-night,"  said  Mrs. 
Smith.  "Go  up  the  street  a  little  and  wait  for 
me.  I  will  have  a  talk  with  her."  Then  she 
went  over,  drew  Alice  out  of  the  group,  took 
her  to  the  quiet  door-step  and  extended  the 
long-delayed  invitation  to  come  to  her  home 
for  an  indefinite  stay.  The  answer,  as  she  had 
expected,  was  a  polite  refusal,  but  it  opened  the 
way  for  her  to  offer  some  motherly  advice  to 
the  girl  in  the  effort  to  convince  her  that  she 
had  taken  an  unwise  step. 

Alice  was  very  frank. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  make  myself  very 
clear,  Mrs.  Smith,"  she  said,  "but  at  Hawburg 
I  felt  smothered,  helpless,  lonely.  Here, 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION      69 

though  I  do  not  think  I  am  especially  fitted  for 
this  work  and  though  it  has  unpleasant  fea- 
tures, I  seem  to  be  living  in  a  new  world.  I 
have  energy,  I  have  hope,  I  feel  equal  to  what- 
ever I  undertake.  I  seem  to  be  finding  my- 
self," she  went  on  with  rather  a  tremulous  little 
laugh,  "and  I  discover — you  may  think  this 
sounds  conceited — I  discover  there  is  more  to 
me  than  I  ever  guessed.  I  could  really,"  she 
added  after  a  pause,  "I  could  really,  if  it  were 
necessary — which,  fortunately,  it  is  not — go 
back  to  Hawburg  and  to  my  school  once  more. 
The  roof  would  never  shut  down  so  close 
again." 

They  bade  each  other  good-by  and  went 
their  respective  ways,  the  older  woman  feeling 
sure  that  the  girl  had  not  yet  fully  found  her- 
self. 

Alice  had  been  yet  more  confidential  with 
Lieutenant  Mary  Hoxie,  under  whose  special 
supervision  she  had  been  placed  and  to  whom 
she  had  become  deeply  attached.  The  lieu- 
tenant had  questioned  her  gently  as  to  the 
handsome  young  man  who  was  seen  to  linger 
so  frequently  in  her  vicinity. 


70     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

"I  never  spoke  to  him  until  I  came  here," 
she  said  calmly.  "He  will  go  away  presently 
and  not  return." 

Then  she  had  confessed  that  in  joining  the 
army  she  now  realized  that  she  had  been  moved 
rather  by  a  selfish  wish  to  escape  from  prison, 
than  by  a  desire  to  work  for  the  benefit  of  the 
sorrowful  and  suffering.  Now,  though  she 
had  found  how  hard  the  task  was,  she  was 
learning  that  she  could  do  her  part  if  she 
would.  "If  only,"  she  whispered  under  her 
breath,  "if  only  I  need  not  sell  War  Crysl" 

Weeks  went  on  into  months.  Rumors  came 
to  Hawburg  now  and  then  that  Alice  Rogers 
had  been  seen  on  the  Chicago  streets,  either 
making  one  of  a  grotesque  procession,  or  alone 
with  a  bundle  of  War  Crys  under  her  arm. 
Tom  Hood  was  away  from  home  a  good  deal 
and  some  of  the  young  women  were  growing 
anxious  to  know  where  he  spent  his  time.  Mrs. 
Smith  was  back  and  forth  between  her  own 
home  at  the  capital  and  her  sister's  in  Haw- 
burg.  Days  were  dull  and  nothing  happened. 

One  September  night,  on  the  same  spot 
where  Mrs.  Smith  and  Tom  Hood  had  met, 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     71 

another  Salvation  Army  meeting  was  in  prog- 
ress. Tom  Hood  was  there  again.  He  could 
not  stay  away,  though  he  had  had  nothing  but 
discouragement.  It  was  a  somewhat  larger 
crowd  than  usual  that  had  gathered  about  the 
Salvationists  that  evening;  there  was  more 
pushing  and  shuffling  about.  Perhaps  his  jeal- 
ous eyes  imagined  it,  perhaps  it  was  true,  but, 
at  all  events,  watchful  Tom  Hood  thought  he 
saw  a  burly  ruffian  jostling  unduly  the  "pretty 
Salvation  lass,"  Alice.  Instantly  he  caught  at 
the  man  and  as  instantly  he  himself  was  seized 
by  his  elbows  from  behind,  while  at  the  same 
moment  some  one,  he  never  knew  whom,  struck 
him  a  blow  with  brass  knuckles  that  laid  him 
bleeding  and  senseless  on  the  ground.  There 
was  a  commotion  and  a  scattering  of  all  who 
might  come  under  the  suspicion  of  the  police, 
should  those  elusive  officers  arrive,  and  pres- 
ently Hood  was  borne  into  the  army  quarters 
and  laid  on  a  bench  in  the  waiting-room  back 
of  the  little  office.  Lieutenant  Mary  Hoxie 
was  there,  and  Alice  Rogers.  Another  member 
of  the  army,  Ensign  Dale,  had  been  a  physi- 
cian before  he  had  elected  to  serve  humanity 
in  this  other  way,  and  he  examined  the  injured 


72     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

man.  Then  he  left  to  get  bandages  and  a  sur- 
geon's needle. 

Alice  took  the  older  woman  by  the  arms  and 
faced  her  about. 

"I  love  him,"  she  said  simply  and  with  the 
self-control  of  the  real  soldier.  "I  have  loved 
him  for  years  and  he  does  not  know.  If  he 
dies — "  She  turned  and  knelt  at  his  side  with 
bowed  head.  His  eyes  opened.  He  reached 
out  his  hand  uncertainly  as  he  whispered, 
"That  would  raise  me  from  the  dead,"  and 
lapsed  into  unconsciousness  again. 

It  was  not  a  place  to  be  chosen  for  the  cul- 
mination of  a  love  affair.  It  was  a  dingy  room 
with  the  odor  of  disinfectants  strong  in  it,  yet 
not  powerful  enough  to  hide  the  smell  of 
musty  woolen  'garments  worn  by  the  waifs 
who  had  rested  there,  or  that  of  the  stack  of 
mustier  books  that  no  normal  human  being 
would  read,  gifts  from  the  benevolent  who 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  them.  But  the  young 
people  in  the  room  now  never  remembered 
these  things  to  its  discredit.  Floating  in  at  the 
window  came  the  familiar  air,  On  the  Banks 
of  the  Wabash.  It  was  another  and  more 


A   HAWBURG    SENSATION     73 

sacred  river  that  the  singers  meant,  but  Hood's 
dulled  brain  roused  again.  "The  Wabash — 
we'll  go,"  he  said,  and  smiled. 

Even  after  this,  when  Hood  slowly  came  to 
himself,  she  did  not  surrender  easily. 

"I  am  pledged,"  she  said,  "and  there  is  so 
much  to  be  done,  and  the  helpers  are  so  few." 

"But  they  will  release  you,"  the  lover  urged, 
"and  you  shall  give  them  what  gifts  you 
please." 

"But  it  is  my  own  consent  I  need,"  she  an- 
swered. 

Lieutenant  Mary  Hoxie  came  to  the  man's 
aid.  Old;  never,  even  in  youth,  other  than 
plain ;  zealous  in  religion  and  good  works ;  tire- 
less in  unselfish  laborious  service ;  the  good  of 
the  Army  always  at  heart ;  fanatic  the  heedless 
called  her — she  was  yet  a  woman. 

"I  should  be  glad,  my  dear,  if  you  had  mar- 
ried in  the  ranks ;  we  should  like  to  have  you  re- 
main with  us.  I  shall  miss  you,  indeed.  But 
go  and  be  happy.  I  believe  the  Lord  is  pleased 
with  His  creatures  who  are  happy,  and  that 
they  serve  Him  so  as  well  as  those  who  do  the 
harder  tasks.  You  will  not  be  selfishly  happy 


74     A   HAWBURG    SENSATION 

now,  for  your  eyes  have  been  opened  to  the 
world's  suffering.  Go;  the  Lord  be  with  you." 

As  long  as  they  live  those  two  will  remember 
that  plain  face  as  the  face  of  an  angel,  and  al- 
ways they  will  wonder,  as  over  something  sa- 
cred, what  was  the  story  back  of  her  life  of 
abnegation. 

There  was  another  sensation  in  Hawburg 
when  Tom  Hood  came  back,  bringing  his  wife. 
The  people  found  it  difficult  to  adjust  them- 
selves to  the  situation,  and  felt  it  almost  too 
much  for  them.  It  really  seemed  that  the 
world  was  getting  too  big  and  its  affairs  too 
complicated. 

As  if  the  one  sensation  were  not  enough, 
another  was  precipitated  upon  them.  The 
Widow  Smith  achieved  her  desire  of  obtaining 
a  euphonious  name,  and  while  excitement  over 
the  other  event  was  still  high,  sent  out  wedding 
announcements  reading  thus:  "The  Reverend 
and  Mrs.  Philander  Considine." 

Inspired  by  this  union,  Mrs.  Squire  Dawson 
perpetrated  her  first  and  only  recorded  joke. 

"The  thunder-storm  season  ain't  over  yet, 
Maria,  and  Philander  will  be  handy  to  have 
around  the  house." 


MISS  LUCYANNA'S  EVENTFUL 
DAY 

ONE  who  knew  her  well  would  have  seen 
at  once  that  Miss  Lucyanna  Prince 
lacked  something  of  her  customary  serenity  as 
she  stood  on  her  front  steps  that  bright  June 
morning.  It  was  Sunday,  too,  when  a  more 
than  common  peacefulness  was  in  order.  Even 
the  little  Murphy  girl,  who  had  come  in  to  stay 
during  the  hours  of  church  service,  and  who 
did  not  know  Miss  Lucyanna  so  very  well,  real- 
ized that  the  lady  was  not  following  her  usual 
routine  when  she  came  back  the  third  time  and 
told  her  in  an  absent-minded  way  just  where 
to  find  Grandmother's  sunbonnet  in  case  that 
aged  lady  took  a  fancy  to  walk  about  in  the 
yard. 

"As  if  I  had  not  waited  on  Grandmother 
every  Sunday  and  some  week-days  for  the  last 
year,"  said  the  little  Murphy  girl  to  herself. 
"Miss  Lucyanna's  thinking  about  something 
else,"  she  reflected  shrewdly. 

75 


76  MISS   LUCYANNA 

Whatever  she  was  thinking  of,  it  had  not 
prevented  her  from  arraying  herself  in  the 
freshest  and  daintiest  of  summer  attire.  She 
had  "done  up"  that  blue  lawn  frock  and  the 
frilly  white  petticoat  herself  during  the  week, 
and  had  considered  that  if  she  was  to  wear 
them  that  season  there  could  not  be  a  more  fa- 
vorable opportunity  than  this  very  morning, 
so  far  as  weather  was  concerned.  She  knew 
there  were  people  in  Raintown  who  thought 
that  she  dressed  rather  gay  for  her  years,  and 
who  lifted  their  eyebrows  at  the  pink  roses  on 
her  new  straw  hat,  but  she  couldn't  help  it  if 
they  did,  she  said,  when  she  talked  about  it  at 
home ;  she  was  going  to  wear  clothes  to  please 
herself. 

In  talking  over  her  affairs  at  home  she  was 
usually  her  only  hearer.  Ostensibly  she  ad- 
dressed her  remarks  to  Grandmother,  but  as 
Grandmother  was  extremely  deaf,  and  was 
likely  to  be  rambling  in  her  replies  when  she 
was  with  difficulty  made  to  hear,  she  served 
commonly  as  a  sort  of  figurehead  in  conversa- 
tions. Miss  Lucyanna  was  not  naturally  a  si- 
lent person,  and  had  fallen  into  the  fashion  of 
thinking  aloud  in  Grandmother's  presence. 


MISS    LUCYANNA  77 

"It  isn't  quite  so  bad  as  talking  to  one's 
self,"  she  thought,  "for  I  can  kind  of  make  be- 
lieve she  hears,  like  the  children  do  with  their 
dolls.  It  looks  more  sociable,  too,  to  be  talking 
along  than  going  about  mum." 

Nor  was  Miss  Lucyanna  so  preoccupied  that 
she  could  pass  by  her  favorite  rosebush  without 
a  glance. 

"If  I  had  time  to  go  around  by  old  Mis' 
Aikens's  I'd  take  her  a  bunch,  but  I  can't  bear 
to  pick  them  off  and  let  them  wilt,  poor  things, 
so  I  shan't  take  but  one." 

Having  selected  her  flower,  she  shut  the  stem 
in  her  hymn-book,  for  it  was  not  customary  in 
Raintown  to  wear  roses  pinned  to  the  gown  or 
thrust  into  the  belt,  and  for  Miss  Lucyanna  to 
do  so  would  have  been  held  to  show  unseemly 
coquettishness,  or,  as  the  neighbors  would  have 
put  it,  that  she  wished  to  attract  attention. 

Having  raised  her  parasol  and  gathered  the 
skirt  of  her  blue  gown  so  that  it  should  not 
brush  against  the  dusty  dog-fennel  that  bor- 
dered the  narrow  sidewalk — Raintown  did  not 
yet  boast  a  village  improvement  society — Miss 
Prince  proceeded  leisurely  on  her  way.  It  was 
a  little  early,  but  she  wanted  to  go  around  by 


78  MISS    LUCYANNA 

old  Mr.  Stevenson's  and  leave  him  her  copy  of 
last  week's  Herald  and  Presbyter. 

"I  don't  find  much  in  it  that's  interesting," 
she  confessed,  "but  he  sets  store  by  it." 

As  she  went  along  the  absent-minded  ex- 
pression remained.  So  absorbed  was  she  that 
she  did  not  see  Mrs.  Casterline  and  her  daugh- 
ter Minnie,  from  over  on  the  South  Pike,  as 
they  came  driving  in,  though  she  seemed  to  be 
looking  directly  toward  them,  causing  those 
ladies  to  remark  sniffily  a  little  later  that  Lucy- 
anna  Prince  was  getting  too  stuck  up  to  know 
common  folks,  and  creating  a  prolonged  cool- 
ness that  afterward  puzzled  the  innocent  of- 
fender. 

Mr.  Stevenson's  cottage  was  down  by  the 
railroad,  and  as  she  reached  that  neighborhood 
she  found  her  way  blocked  by  a  long  freight 
train,  with  three  empty  passenger  coaches  at- 
tached to  the  rear.  She  waited  for  a  little  time, 
but  as  it  did  not  move  she  decided  that 
it  would  be  necessary  to  walk  to  the  end 
and  go  around  it.  If  she  hadn't  had  on 
her  Sunday  clothes,  she  reflected,  as  she  passed 
along,  she  would  have  been  tempted  to  crawl 
under  one  of  those  high  freight  cars.  As  it 


MISS    LUCYANNA  79 

was,  she  found  when  she  came  down  toward 
the  end  that  she  would  have  to  climb  over  the 
steps  and  platform  of  one  of  the  passenger 
coaches,  for  the  end  of  the  train  was  at  the 
other  side  of  a  little  bridge  which  she  could  not 
cross. 

If  her  mind  had  not  been  intent  on  other 
things  she  would  have  noticed  signs  up  in  the 
other  direction  that  the  train  was  about  to  move. 
The  conductor  waved  his  arm  toward  a  brake- 
man  half-way  along  the  string  of  cars,  the  lo- 
comotive bell  rang,  and  the  steam  began  to 
puff  with  increased  energy.  But  Miss  Lucy- 
anna,  heedless  of  these  things,  gathered  her 
skirts  up  carefully,  furled  her  parasol,  re- 
moved her  gray  silk  gloves,  grasped  the  railing 
and  mounted  the  platform. 

At  that  very  instant  the  thrill  of  movement 
went  through  the  train,  the  cars  bumped  to- 
gether, the  wheels  began  to  turn.  It  was  a 
slow  movement.  Miss  Lucyanna  was  nimble, 
and  could  have  descended  the  opposite  steps  in 
safety,  but,  unfortunately,  there,  on  the  other 
side,  was  a  ditch  she  had  forgotten;  to  step 
down  would  be  to  drop  into  it.  While  she  hesi- 
tated, and  before  the  ditch  was  passed,  the 


80  MISS    LUCYANNA 

train  had  begun  to  move  faster.  Puff -puff, 
puff -puff,  went  the  engine  laboriously,  but 
still  with  energy  and  as  if  equal  to  a  swift 
pace.  Before  she  fairly  realized  the  situation, 
the  train  was  going  at  good  speed  and  the  vil- 
lage was  left  behind. 

In  the  first  bewildered  moment  Miss  Lucy- 
anna's  impulse  was  to  jump  off,  without  re- 
gard to  risks ;  the  next  thought  was  to  scream. 
She  did  neither  of  these  things,  being  a  self- 
controlled  sensible  woman,  and  soon  recovered 
her  presence  of  mind. 

"Well,  of  all  things!"  she  said  aloud,  as  if 
she  had  been  addressing  Grandmother.  "I  am 
in  a  fix.  This  train  won't  stop  like  enough 
before  it  gets  to — why,  it's  Sunday  morning, 
with  no  accommodation  on  and  nothing  but  the 
noon  express  down,  and  that  never  stops  at 
Raintown.  I'll  be  twenty  miles  from  home, 
and  how  on  earth  I'll  get  back  I  don't  know. 
But  I  can't  help  it,  and  I'll  just  have  to  wait 
and  see  what  happens." 

She  turned  to  the  car  door  behind  her  and 
found  it  locked.  Then  she  braced  herself 
against  the  end  rail  for  what  seemed  a  long 
time,  when  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  might 


MISS    LUCYANNA  81 

spread  the  Herald  and  Presbyter  on  the  step 
and  sit  down  upon  that  without  injury  to  her 
gown.  At  that  moment  a  brakeman,  running 
along  the  top  of  the  freight  car  in  front, 
caught  sight  of  her,  dropped  easily  down  to 
where  she  was  and  looked  at  her  in  mute  as- 
tonishment. 

She  explained  her  presence  there,  and  after  a 
moment's  polite  hesitation,  he  broke  into  gay 
tumultuous  laughter,  in  which  Miss  Lucyanna 
presently  joined  like  a  schoolgirl. 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?"  she  asked,  after  the 
brakeman  had  quieted  down  a  little,  and  both 
had  got  their  breath. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  can  get  the  train 
stopped  right  here  in  Oak  Valley,  five  miles 
from  anywhere,  but  I  advise  you  to  stay  just 
where  you  are  till  we  get  to  Liberty,  and  then 
take  the  noon  train  back." 

"But  I  haven't  any  money  to  pay  my  fare, 
except  ten  cents  I  was  going  to  put  in  the  mis- 
sionary collection,  and  the  noon  express  does 
not  stop  at  Raintown,  anyway." 

"That'll  be  all  right,"  said  the  brakeman, 
easily.  "I'll  explain  to  our  conductor,  and  he'll 
give  you  an  order  to  be  passed  through  free. 


82  MISS    LUCYANNA 

Besides,  I'll  speak  to  the  express  conductor. 
Tell  him  we  carried  you  off  by  mistake  and 
the  road  owes  it  to  you  to  get  you  back  home. 
But  come  inside — or,  what  is  better  this  fine 
June  day,  come  out  on  the  back  platform  and 
I'll  get  you  a  chair." 

"What  I  am  thankful  for,"  remarked  Miss 
Lucyanna,  as  she  seated  herself  in  this  place 
of  vantage,  "is  that,  so  far  as  I  know,  not  a 
person  saw  me  carried  off,  the  train  was  so  far 
out  on  the  edge  of  the  village  when  I  got  on, 
and  Jones's  orchard  was  between  me  and  the 
nearest  house." 

Just  then  the  train  slowed  up  a  little  in  cross- 
ing a  bridge.  As  she  glanced  up  casually, 
there,  waiting  in  a  buggy  for  the  train  to  pass, 
were  the  man  and  woman  who  had  been  the 
cause  of  her  preoccupation  that  morning — 
Cousin  Libby  Anderson  and  Mr.  Amos  Whit- 
worth.  At  the  instant  she  was  engaged  in  an- 
imated conversation  with  the  brakeman,  who 
was  a  good-looking  young  man,  "and  not  so 
particularly  young  either  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,"  she  had  already  reflected.  He  was 
gallantly  kneeling  at  her  feet,  arranging  the 
Herald  and  Presbyter  as  a  protection  for  her 


MISS   LUCYANNA  83 

dainty  skirts  from  the  grime  of  the  platform. 
The  couple  in  the  vehicle  were  the  last  persons 
Miss  Lucyanna  wished  to  see  at  that  time.  She 
caught  their  look  of  surprise  and  what  seemed 
to  her  also  an  expression  of  embarrassment,  but 
there  was  no  embarrassment  on  her  face.  She 
was  equal  to  the  emergency,  and  waved  her 
hand  to  them  gaily  as  she  swept  by  and  con- 
tinued to  wave  it  as  long  as  she  kept  them  in 
sight  from  the  back  platform. 

But  when  the  brakeman  left  her  to  attend  to 
his  duties  she  ceased  to  smile  and  a  stern  ex- 
pression, not  at  all  becoming,  came  to  her  face. 
She  had  talked  the  matter  over  that  morning 
in  Grandmother's  presence  before  the  little 
Murphy  girl's  arrival. 

Amos  Whitworth  had,  in  the  phraseology  of 
the  village,  been  "paying  attention"  to  her  for 
two  years  with  a  regularity  that  in  the  eyes  of 
interested  observers — which  meant  the  eyes  of 
nine-tenths  of  the  people  of  the  village — could 
only  indicate  the  most  serious  matrimonial  pur- 
pose. To  her  his  solicitous  and  deferential 
manner  and  his  concentration  of  gaze  signified 
even  more  than  the  regularity  of  his  visits ;  but 
up  to  this  time  he  had  refrained  from  speaking 


84  MISS    LUCYANNA 

plainly  of  his  intentions.  He  had  not  asked 
her  to  be  Mrs.  Whitworth.  XJntil  recently, 
however,  she  had  had  no  doubt  but  that  he 
would  do  so  when  the  right  time  came,  though 
she  was  obliged  to  confess  to  herself  that  time, 
according  to  his  clock,  moved  slowly. 

This  summer  an  element  of  uncertainty  had 
entered  into  her  dreams.  Prosperity  had 
brought  about  much  activity  in  building  in 
neighboring  towns,  particularly  in  Liberty, 
and  demand  for  the  product  of  Mr.  Whit- 
worth's  brickyard  had  been  brisk,  necessi- 
tating his  frequent  absence  from  home.  He 
had  been  much  at  Liberty,  and  Cousin  Libbie 
lived  there.  Cousin  Libbie  was  a  widow.  She 
had  known  Amos  Whitworth  when  they  were 
young,  and  she  took  pains  to  renew  the  ac- 
quaintance and  to  make  time  pass  pleasantly 
for  the  gentleman  in  such  hours  of  leisure  as 
he  might  find  while  in  her  town.  Rumor  had  it 
that  he  found  many  such  hours,  and  that  the 
lady  entertained  him  so  well  that  he  was  in 
danger  of  forgetting  Miss  Lucyanna. 

The  latter  was  not  kept  in  the  dark  as  to  his 
doings.  He  was,  of  course,  silent  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  calls  upon  her — less  frequent  now 


MISS   LUCYANNA  85 

— or  mentioned  Mrs.  Libbie  in  a  casual  way 
as  one  whom  he  had  accidentally  met;  but  there 
were  officious  "friends"  who  kept  her  posted. 

"I  don't  need  to  be  told,"  said  Miss  Lucy- 
anna  to  Grandmother — or  rather  to  herself — 
grimly.  "Don't  I  know  all  of  Lib's  sly  ways? 
Didn't  I  see  her  twenty  years  ago  when  she 
schemed  and  connived  and  palavered  until  she 
took  Sam  Anderson  away  from  Mary  Clark 
that  he  was  actually  engaged  to?  After  he 
got  his  wits  again  I  believe  he  regretted  what 
he'd  done  all  his  days.  Oh,  I  know  her.  I 
wouldn't  put  anything  apast  her  when  she 
wants  to  gain  a  point,  but  I'd  never  have 
thought  she'd  go  so  far  as  to  lie  about  my  age. 
The  outrageousness  of  her  saying  that  I'm 
forty-seven  instead  of  thirty-six,  and  that  she 
has  the  family  Bible  to  show  for  it !" 

Miss  Lucyanna  was  not  the  first  woman  to 
have  a  sensitiveness  on  the  subject  of  her  age, 
but  seldom  is  one  so  sorely  tried  as  she  had  been 
in  regard  to  this  delicate  matter. 

Left  to  herself  she  would  probably  have 
been  as  reticent  in  regard  to  her  years  as  other 
women  past  their  youth,  but  circumstances  had 
seemed  to  make  entire  frankness  necessary. 


86  MISS    LUCYANNA 

In  the  first  place  she  had  been  given  to  under- 
stand, not  only  by  Amos  Whitworth  himself, 
but  by  his  sister  and  by  friends  who  thought 
they  knew  him  well,  that  that  upright  person 
could  not  abide  man,  woman  or  child  who  did 
not  speak  the  truth,  who  even  skimped  the 
truth,  who  wilfully  prevaricated  in  the  smallest 
degree  when  a  question  of  fact  was  involved. 

"I  don't  tell  lies  myself  and  I  won't  put  up 
with  liars,"  said  Amos,  with  an  air  of  conscious 
virtue.  Moreover,  he  had  said  on  more  than 
one  occasion  in  Miss  Lucyanna's  presence  that 
he  had  no  patience  with  any  person  who  was 
touchy  on  the  matter  of  age.  He  was  willing 
to  tell  the  truth  and  let  everybody  know  he  was 
forty-one  on  the  seventeenth  of  last  Septem- 
ber, and  he  couldn't  see  why  any  one  should  be 
silly  enough  not  to  be  as  honest.  Years  were 
no  disgrace. 

Even  after  this  Lucyanna  might  have  kept 
silence  on  the  subject  had  it  not  been  for 
Grandmother,  who  was  really  something  of  a 
trial  since  her  hearing  had  failed  and  her  mind 
had  gone  wandering  into  dim  strange  by- 
paths, whence  it  never  again  could  find  its  way 
until  a  heavenly  dawn  should  bring  the  light. 


MISS    LUCYANNA  87 

In  Grandmother's  earlier  years  she  had  been  as 
discreet  as  one  could  wish  on  the  subject  of 
ages,  but  now  it  was  quite  the  reverse.  She  was 
much  given  to  discoursing  garrulously  in  re- 
gard to  the  years  of  her  descendants,  but  alas, 
as  poor  Lucyanna  found,  her  memory  was  not 
trustworthy. 

"Lucyanna,  you  know,"  she  would  say  with 
an  alert  and  positive  air  to  the  interested  neigh- 
bor who  might  happen  in,  "Lucyanna  will  be 
forty-seven  in  February.  I  remember  that  the 
day  she  was  born  was  the  coldest  one  of  the 
winter — seventeen  degrees  below  zero,"  and 
the  old  lady  would  ramble  amiably  on,  while 
poor  Lucyanna  would  explain  with  a  forced 
laugh  that  Grandmother  had  got  her  mixed  up 
with  Sister  Sarah  and  made  her  out  ten  years 
older  than  she  was,  not  wholly  convincing  the 
neighbor,  however,  as  she  knew  very  well.  The 
visitor  would  go  away  and  say  wherever  she 
happened  to  call  next  that  Grandmother  must 
be  right.  Old  folks  remembered  things  away 
back  so  accurately.  And  as  Lucyanna  had 
been  born  in  another  state  there  was  no  one  in 
the  village  to  speak  in  her  behalf. 

Thus  it  had  come  about  that  she  had  men- 


88  MISS    LUCYANNA 

tioned  her  exact  years  to  Amos.  She  did  not 
want  him  to  get  the  idea  that  she  was  forty- 
seven,  and  she  thought  he  would  certainly  take 
her  word,  for  she  had  never  deceived  him  in 
any  way.  Of  course,  he  ought  to  know  by  her 
looks,  she  thought,  that  she  was  not  so  old  as 
Grandmother  said,  "but  men  are  so  stupid 
about  some  things  you  never  can  tell,"  she 
added. 

Now  another  complication  had  come  in,  an- 
other element  working  against  her  peace  of 
mind.  Cousin  Libby  had  been  visiting  old 
friends  in  and  about  Raintown,  among  them 
Amos'  sister  out  on  the  Oak  Hill  Road.  She 
had  spent  a  day  with  Lucyanna,  for  they  were 
outwardly  on  the  friendliest  of  terms.  Grand- 
mother belonged  to  Lucyanna  on  her  mother's 
side  of  the  house  and  was  not  related  to  Libbie, 
so  she  had  no  memories  of  the  latter's  birth. 
She  did  regale  the  visitor,  however,  with  her 
recollections  of  the  cold  day  on  which  Lucy- 
anna came  into  the  world,  forty-seven  years  be- 
fore. 

After  this.visit  word  came  back  to  Lucyanna 
that  Libbie  had  spoken  of  the  accuracy  of 
Grandmother's  memory,  and  had  mentioned 


MISS   LUCYANNA  89 

that  the  Prince  family  Bible  in  her  own  pos- 
session showed  that  the  old  lady  recalled  the 
date  of  Lucyanna's  birth  perfectly. 

The  ownership  of  that  Bible  had  been  a  sore 
point  with  Lucyanna.  "It  belongs  to  me  by 
rights,"  she  had  said  more  than  once  to  Libbie 
herself.  "My  father  was  the  oldest  son  and 
I'm  his  only  living  child,  so  I  ought  to  have  it." 

But  Libbie  would  not  give  it  up,  saying  that 
Grandpa  had  given  it  to  her  personally,  and 
she  meant  to  keep  it.  She  kept  it  on  the  high- 
est shelf  of  her  sitting-room  cupboard,  behindl 
locked  glass  doors,  as  Lucyanna  had  noticed  on 
her  occasional  visits  to  the  home  in  Liberty. 

It  was  this  reprehensible  conduct  of  Libbie 
that  had  occasioned  Miss  Lucyanna's  mental 
disturbance  that  morning,  and  had  indirectly 
been  the  cause  of  her  being  carried  off  by  the 
train.  It  was  this  she  was  thinking  over  as  she 
went  along,  unmindful  of  the  beautiful  June 
landscape  spread  out  before  her. 

"Of  course,  if  she's  told  that  about  me  she's 
made  herself  out  younger  than  she  is.  She's 
the  one  that's  forty-seven,  and,  of  course,  she 
knows  Amos  wouldn't  want  to  marry  a  woman 
older  than  himself;  so  I  don't  doubt  she's  told 


90  MISS   LUCYANNA 

him  she's  thirty-six,  and  has  the  Bible  to  prove 
it.  She's  capable  of  it.  If  lying  will  do  it,  I 
suppose  she'll  get  him,  and  if  he  hasn't  any  bet- 
ter sense  I'm  sure  she's  welcome  to  him ;  but  I 
should  like  to  have  him  know  that  I  told  the 
truth  about  my  age. — No,  she  isn't  welcome  to 
him  either,"  she  hastily  amended.  "I  want  him 
myself.  He  belongs  to  me.  He  likes  me  and 
I  ought  to  have  him." 

As  she  acknowledged  afterward  in  telling 
the  story  to  Grandmother,  who  never  heard  a 
word  of  it,  she  would  have  broken  down  crying 
at  that  moment,  if  a  sudden  daring  thought 
had  not  electrified  her  and  driven  the  tears 
away. 

The  train  was  approaching  Liberty.  She 
looked  at  her  watch.  It  would  be  twenty  min- 
utes or  more  before  the  express  arrived.  Cousin 
Libbie's  house  was  only  two  squares  from  the 
station.  She  would  have  plenty  of  time.  Yes, 
she  would  try  it.  The  freight  rolled  lumber- 
ingly  on  to  a  side-track  and  stopped.  The  po- 
lite brakeman  was  on  hand  to  assist  her  to 
alight  and  to  make  her  known  to  the  conductor, 
with  whom  she  joined  in  a  laugh  over  her  un- 
expected journey.  Then  she  took  her  way  up 


MISS    LUCYANNA  91 

the  street.  Liberty,  like  Raintown,  was  a 
church-going  community.  Few  persons  were 
to  be  seen,  and  houses  had  a  deserted  look.  Ar- 
rived at  Cousin  Libbie's  residence  she  found 
that  also  closed,  as  she  expected. 

"Nanny  sings  in  the  choir,  and  of  course 
she'll  be  gone,"  she  had  thought  before  she  left 
the  train,  "and  little  Emmy  will  be  with  her, 
it's  likely." 

Evidently  this  was  the  case ;  also  it  was  what 
she  wished.  Up  on  the  porch  she  went,  down 
to  the  door-mat  she  stooped,  and  from  under  it 
took  the  door-key.  It  was  a  matter  of  course 
that  the  key  should  be  there.  It  was  the  way  of 
all  village  women  to  put  keys  under  door-mats. 

She  went  in  and,  behold! — also  as  she  had 
hoped — the  key  of  the  glass  cupboard  was  in 
the  door.  She  stood  on  a  chair  and  took  down 
the  precious  family  Bible,  wrapped  it  care- 
fully in  the  useful  Herald  and  Presbyter, 
which  she  had  removed  from  the  car  platform 
and  preserved.  Then  she  wrote  a  hasty  note  on 
a  scrap  of  paper,  telling  Nannie  that  she  had 
borrowed  the  Bible  for  a  few  days  and  would 
return  it.  She  regretted  that  she  did  not  have 
time  to  stay  and  see  her,  and  left  her  love.  Then 


92  MISS    LUCYANNA 

she  went  out  and  locked  the  door,  restored  the 
key  to  its  place  under  the  mat,  and  started 
toward  the  station.  At  the  gate  she  encoun- 
tered a  neighbor  whom  she  had  met  on  former 
visits — a  woman  moved,  she  suspected,  by  curi- 
osity as  to  her  errand.  She  was  equal  to  the 
occasion. 

"I  am  here  quite  accidentally,"  she  said  civ- 
illy, accounting  for  herself  in  a  plausible  way, 
"but  I  thought  I  might  as  well  attend  to  a 
long-delayed  duty  and,  while  Cousin  Libbie  is 
over  at  Raintown,  take  the  Bible  and  make 
some  entries  in  it  that  have  been  neglected. 

"There,"  she  said  as  she  went  on,  "I  am. 
afraid  Amos  wouldn't  consider  that  truthful. 
It  gave  the  idea  to  Mrs.  Jones  that  Libbie 
wanted  the  Bible  taken  over." 

There  was  no  trouble  on  the  return  trip. 
Miss  Lucyanna's  eyes  were  very  bright  and  her 
cheeks  very  pink  with  the  excitement  of  her  ad- 
venture. Other  passengers  looked  at  her  with 
admiration,  and  the  conductor,  who  proved  to 
be  an  old  acquaintance,  stopped  at  her  seat  and 
indulged  in  some  pleasantries  concerning  her 
morning's  trip — "made  talk,"  as  Grandmother 
would  have  said,  because  of  her  brightness  of 


MISS    LUCYANNA  93 

face  an'd  freshness  of  attire,  the  blue  lawn  be- 
ing yet  scarcely  crumpled,  and  the  rose  in  her 
hymn-book  not  withered.  On  her  absorbed 
way  out  on  the  freight  train,  Miss  Lucyanna 
had  scarcely  noted  the  charm  of  the  June 
morning.  Now  the  beauty  of  the  golden  day 
was  suddenly  borne  in  upon  her.  The  fields 
and  forests  in  the  height  of  their  summer  glory 
were  a  delight  to  her  eyes ;  the  fragrance  of  the 
clover  swept  in  at  the  open  windows  like  a 
balm.  She  was  elate  and  triumphant  in  spite 
of  the  heartache  because  of  the  defection  of 
Amos.  And  she  had  just  committed  a  bur- 
glary! It  was  nothing  else,  for  she  knew  Libbie 
would  never  have  allowed  her  to  take  the  book 
out  of  the  house.  She  had  stolen  the  Bible — 
and  she  was  glad  of  it! 

She  could  not  escape  all  observation  when 
she  left  the  car.  The  unusual  fact  of  the  stop- 
ping of  this  particular  train  itself  excited  at- 
tention, and  when  she  alighted  with  much  un- 
necessary assistance  from  the  conductor,  there 
were  stares  of  surprise  from  the  villagers  who 
did  not  know  she  had  been  away  and  felt  ag- 
grieved that  they  had  not  been  informed. 
Among  those  who  chanced  to  see  her  arrival 


94  MISS    LUCYANNA 

was  Amos  Whitworth,  from  his  window  in  the 
little  hotel  across  the  street. 

His  Sunday  evening  visits,  once  a  matter  of 
course,  had  been  irregular  of  late;  but  some- 
how, in  spite  of  that  morning  drive  with  the 
widow,  Miss  Lucyanna  felt  that  he  would  be 
around  that  night.  She  knew  Amos  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that  curiosity  as  to  her  trip 
would  bring  him,  if  nothing  else.  She  seldom 
left  home  and  he  knew  that  she  would  not  stay 
long  away  from  Grandmother.  So  when  sup- 
per was  over,  the  Murphy  girl  gone  home, 
and  Grandmother  put  to  bed  like  the  child  that 
she  was,  Miss  Lucyanna  seated  herself  expect- 
antly in  one  of  the  two  rocking-chairs  on  the 
little  porch.  Before  this  she  had  lighted  the 
lamp  on  the  center-table  in  the  parlor,  and  un- 
der it  had  opened  the  borrowed  Bible  at  the 
family  record.  While  handling  the  book  she 
made  an  unexpected  discovery.  Out  from  its 
pages  fell  a  letter  addressed  to  Mrs.  Libbie 
Anderson  in  the  bold  hand  of  Amos  Whit- 
worth.  To  say  that  the  sight  of  it  did  not  give 
Miss  Lucyanna  a  fresh  pang  would  not  be 
true.  And  it  would  be  useless  to  deny  that  her 
first  impulse  was  to  take  the  missive  from  the 


MISS    LUCYANNA  95 

envelope  and  read  it.  But  she  resisted  tempta- 
tion. 

"No;  I  am  going  to  be  able  to  say  to  him 
truthfully,  if  the  subject  comes  up  this  even- 
ing, that  I  have  not  read  it,"  and  she  laid  it 
down  on  the  open  pages  of  the  family  record. 

"But  I  wonder,"  she  said  in  the  unheeding 
ears  of  Grandmother,  as  she  tucked  her  into 
bed,  "oh,  I  wonder  what  he  could  have  said 
that  would  make  Libbie  lay  the  letter  away  in 
the  Bible." 

As  twilight  deepened  she  heard  Mr.  Whit- 
worth's  heavy  tread  while  he  was  yet  a  good 
way  off.  A  woman's  ears  are  keen  to  distin- 
guish the  footsteps  of  her  chosen  one,  even 
from  among  many. 

If  the  caller  expected  to  be  chided  for  his 
recent  neglect  or  reproached  for  his  attentions 
to  another  woman,  his  apprehension  was  speed- 
ily relieved.  Miss  Lucyanna  greeted  him  with 
her  accustomed  cordiality,  began  to  chat  in  her 
usual  cheerful  way,  and  was  soon  telling  him 
the  story  of  her  unpremeditated  journey  over 
to  Liberty. 

"I  was  hoping,"  she  said,  laughing,  "to  get 
back  without  any  one  seeing  me  or  knowing 


90  MISS    LUCYANNA 

about  the  ridiculous  affair,  and  when  I  glanced 
up  and  saw  you  and  Cousin  Libbie  there,  look- 
ing so  surprised,  I  was  provoked  that  you  had 
to  happen  along  just  at  that  particular  minute. 
It  was  funny  that  you  did,  wasn't  it?" 

Mr.  Whitworth  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief 
at  this  point.  He  had  felt  that  he  should  have 
to  say  something  about  that  drive  and  hardly 
knew  how  to  introduce  the  subject,  but  here  she 
had  opened  the  way  herself.  He  was  not  quite 
sure  that  he  liked  her  ignoring  of  his  long  ab- 
sence— it  seemed  to  savor  of  indifference — but 
he  was  glad  she  did  not  cherish  any  "feeling" 
in  regard  to  Libbie.  It  made  the  process  of 
smoothing  things  over  so  much  easier  for  him, 
he  thought;  not  knowing,  foolish  man,  that  it 
is  not  the  woman  who  indulges  in  loud  re- 
proaches and  scoldings  who  carries  the  keenest 
weapons  of  defense — and  offense. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "we  did  wonder  how  you 
happened  to  be  on  that  freight  and  where  you 
were  going.  Libbie,"  he  went  on  with  clumsy 
elaboration,  shifting  his  feet  in  the  effort  to 
speak  carelessly,  "Libbie,  who  has  been  visit- 
ing Sister  Jane,  you  know,  wanted  to  go  to 


MISS   LUCYANNA  97 

Oak  Hill  Methodist  meeting  this  morning,  so, 
to  oblige  Jane,  I  took  her  over." 

"'To  oblige  Jane,'  indeed!"  thought  Miss 
Lucyanna  scornfully,  but  she  went  on  placid- 
ly with  her  story. 

"And  in  spite  of  the  first  scare  and  worry  at 
getting  carried  off  by  the  train,  I  must  say  that 
I  really  enjoyed  the  trip,  going  and  coming — 
especially  coming,  for  Tom  Mason,  the  con- 
ductor, was  an  old  schoolmate  that  I  hadn't 
met  for  years  and  it  was  so  nice  to  see  him. 
His  wife,  who  is  dead  now,  was  a  friend  of 
mine,  too.  He  said  he'd  heard  that  I  was  liv- 
ing here,  and  he'd  been  planning  to  drop  off 
and  hunt  me  up,  and  would  be  sure  to  come 
now  that  he'd  seen  me." 

Miss  Lucyanna  in  the  dusk  could  not  see 
Amos  Whitworth's  face  distinctly,  but  she 
knew  without  looking  that  he  frowned  heavily 
at  this  innocent  remark. 

"As  long  as  I  was  over  to  Liberty,"  she  went 
on,  "I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  time  to  bor- 
row the  family  Bible,  which  was  up  at  Libbie's, 
and  bring  it  home  to  make  the  missing  entries. 
They've  been  neglected  so  long.  Brother  Wil- 


98  MISS    LUCYANNA 

liam's  and  Sister  Sarah's  deaths  have  never 
been  set  down  there,  nor  the  record  of  Wil- 
liam's children.  I  have  all  the  dates,  and  if 
you'd  just  as  soon,  I'll  get  you  to  write  them. 
Your  handwriting's  so  much  better  than  mine, 
and  I  never  could  manage  parchment  very 
well. 

"By  the  way,"  she  added  sweetly,"  "if  you 
should  happen  to  be  writing  to  Libbie  soon, 
just  tell  her,  please,  that  I'll  send  the  Bible 
back  next  week.  She  may  not  find  the  note  I 
left  on  the  table." 

Amos  looked  around  at  her  with  a  somewhat 
startled  expression. 

"Me  write  to  Libbie!"  he  exclaimed,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation.  "What  should  I  write  to 
her  for?  What  should  I  write  to  any  woman 
for,  except  you?"  adding  gallantly,  and  with 
returning  self-confidence:  "Why,  I  haven't 
written  a  letter  to  any  other  lady  for  years." 

"Oh,"  returned  Miss  Lucyanna,  "is  that  so? 
I  just  thought  if  you  were  writing  it  would 
save  me  the  trouble.  But  suppose  we  go  in  and 
make  those  entries  now." 

"There  isn't  much  room  to  spare  in  the 
birth  columns,  so  you  may  as  well  put  the 


MISS    LUCYANNA  99 

names  of  William's  children  down  under  my 
record,  and  she  placed  her  finger  on  the  spot 
where,  in  her  Grandfather's  clear  old-fash- 
ioned hand,  was  the  inscription,  "Lucyanna, 
daughter  of,  etc.,  born  May  10,  1874." 

Mr.  Whitworth  read  it  with  interest,  and 
remarked,  meditatively,  "Just  past  thirty-six 
— h'm.  Libbie  said — yes — h'm !  Is  her  record 
in  here?" 

He  was  about  to  turn  back  the  pages,  but 
Lucyanna  put  her  hand  on  them. 

"Never  mind  looking  there,  Amos,"  she  said 
gently.  "Of  course,  I  don't  mind  telling  my 
age,  but  Libbie's  particular  about  hers,  and  it 
wouldn't  be  quite  fair.  This  way  is  the  record 
of  deaths,"  and  she  opened  the  book  at  a  page 
whereon  lay  the  letter  addressed  to  Libbie  in 
Amos's  unmistakable  hand. 

It  was  the  moment  of  Lucyanna's  triumph. 
She  had  proved  to  him  that  she  had  told  the 
truth  about  her  own  age;  she  had  proved  to 
him  that  Libbie  had  not  told  the  truth  about  it ; 
and  she  had  caught  him — the  stickler  for  truth 
— in  a  "whopper". 

It  was  also  a  moment  of  silence.    Amos  was 


100  MISS    LUCYANNA 

too  disconcerted  to  know  what  to  say,  and 
Lucyanna  had  no  occasion  for  speech. 

Presently  he  rallied  a  little  and  looked  at  her 
shamefacedly  and  helpless. 

"A  man  can  make  a  darned  fool  of  himself 
sometimes,  Lucyanna,"  he  stammered.  "It 
was  the  only  time  and,  by  George,  the  last  time 
— and — and — you  musn't  mind  anything  in 
that  letter." 

"Why,  Amos  Whitworth!  you  don't  think 
I'd  read  a  letter  that  wasn't  intended  for  me, 
do  you?  I  haven't  read  a  word  of  it.  'Let  you 
have  it?'  Certainly  not.  It's  Libbie's  letter, 
and  must  go  back  to  her  just  as  I  found  it." 

She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  such  earnestness  and 
firmness  that  Amos  was  forced  to  believe  her. 
In  an  endeavor  to  appear  unconcerned  he 
smiled  in  a  sickly  and  feeble  way,  realizing  too 
well  that  in  addition  to  having  lied  he  had  be- 
trayed guilt  by  an  unnecessary  display  of  anx- 
iety about  the  letter. 

He  went  on  silently  setting  down  the  births 
of  William's  children  and  the  deaths  of  Wil- 
liam and  Sarah  in  the  family  record,  but  his 
penmanship  lacked  something  of  its  accus- 


MISS    LUCYANNA  101 

tomed  firmness  and  regularity.  He  was  plain- 
ly nervous  and  embarrassed,  but  he  was  think- 
ing hard,  and  presently  he  rallied  again  and 
rose  nobly  superior  to  adverse  conditions. 

More  than  one  thing  had  happened  that  day 
to  make  him  feel  that  he  had  not  been  valuing 
Miss  Lucyanna  at  her  true  worth,  and  that  she 
was  a  prize  that  might  slip  away.  "She  had 
looked  mighty  young  and  pretty  as  she  sat 
there  on  the  platform  of  the  car,  with  that 
young  fresh  cub  of  a  brakeman  monkeying 
around  waiting  on  her,"  he  reflected.  As  for 
Tom  Mason  stopping  off  and  visiting  her, 
he'd  see  about  that. 

"Lucyanna,"  he  said,  without  preliminaries, 
"I  think  we've  been  keeping  company  long 
enough  to  come  to  an  understanding.  Let's 
get  married — and  right  away,  too.  Say  yes!" 

He  spoke  in  a  pleading  voice  and  a  humble 
tone,  which  an  hour  before  he  would  not  have 
used,  but,  manlike,  he  ignored  unpleasantness 
and  made  no  allusion  to  his  duplicity  or  the 
possibility  that  another  woman  could  have  in- 
tervened. 

Being  wise  in  her  generation,  Miss  Lucy- 


102  MISS    LUCYANNA 

anna  also  ignored  what  had  happened.  She 
could  afford  to  do  so.  The  inning  was  hers. 

She  was  not  immediately  responsive,  so  she 
told  Grandmother  next  day,  but  that  her  ans- 
wer was  finally  favorable  was  indicated  by  the 
fact  that  Mr.  Whitworth  stayed  so  late  that 
evening  that  the  wakeful  and  observant  neigh- 
bor across  the  street  was  quite  scandalized. 
Also,  he  went  his  way  whistling  a  merry  tune. 

A  few  days  later  Lucyanna  entrusted  the 
Bible  to  him  to  carry  to  Cousin  Libbie,  as  he 
happened  to  have  business  over  at  Liberty. 
Whether  or  not  he  extracted  the  letter  from  its 
protecting  pages  before  delivery  of  the  book 
she  never  inquired.  Neither  did  he  ask  her  if 
she  had  read  it  in  the  later  period  of  possession. 
He  did  not  dare.  If  Miss  Lucyanna  did  allow 
curiosity  as  to  what  he  had  said  to  Libbie  to 
get  the  better  of  her  she  never  confessed  it  to 
any  one  but  Grandmother,  and  Grandmother 
never  told. 


OUT  OF  THE  PAST 

THE  Reverend  John  Graham  was  troub- 
led. All  the  conditions  had  been  favorable 
when  he  accepted  the  call  of  the  First  Congre- 
gational church,  of  Eastport,  two  years  before. 
It  was  his  second  charge,  his  first  having  been 
a  little  mission  church  in  a  western  town,  and 
the  invitation  to  become  pastor  of  this  large 
congregation  in  a  thriving  city  was  a  distinct 
compliment  and  an  unusual  promotion  for  a 
man  only  now  just  past  thirty-one  years  of 
age. 

He  had  come  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction  be- 
cause of  the  opportunity  offered  for  develop- 
ing the  best  that  was  in  him,  and  he  believed, 
and  was  not  unduly  egotistical,  that  he  had 
some  special  gifts  for  the  life-work  he  had 
chosen. 

The  congregation  was  without  factional  dif- 
ficulties ;  it  was  superior  to  the  average  body  of 
church  people  in  intellectual,  if  not  spiritual 
quality,  being  largely  made  up  of  young  or 

103 


104          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

middle-aged  folk,  a  considerable  number  of 
whom,  both  men  and  women,  were  college  bred, 
while  others  were  keen  intelligent  men  of  busi- 
ness, hardly  less  awake  to  new  ideas  than  the 
more  highly  trained  brethren.  There  were  two 
or  three  scholarly  professors  and  scientists 
whose  repute  went  far  beyond  their  own  city, 
and  it  was  the  opportunity  for  association  with 
such  men  that  led  him  to  accept  the  offer  of  the 
pastorate  with  so  much  pleasure,  for  in  his 
three  years  of  mission  church  work  he  had  of- 
ten hungered  for  intellectual  companionship. 
It  was  an  atmosphere  of  culture  into  which  he 
had  entered,  and  in  it  he  was  quite  at  home. 

He  gave  satisfaction,  too,  to  his  flock.  His 
sermons  were  liked  and  his  other  pastoral  du- 
ties were  well  performed ;  he  promoted  and  as- 
sisted in  the  varied  church  activities:  its  char- 
ities, classes,  uplift  movements;  he  was  pro- 
gressive, earnest,  and  personally  companion- 
able and  popular. 

The  situation  was  especially  harmonious  and 
agreeable  as  far  as  any  observer  could  judge. 
And  yet  the  Reverend  Mr.  Graham  was  un- 
happy. His  was  a  trouble  that  had  begun  very 
soon  after  he  came  to  the  church,  and  had  re- 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          105 

mained  with  him  and  increased.  At  first,  a 
phenomenon  that  aroused  his  interest  and  curi- 
osity, affecting  his  peace  of  mind  scarcely  at 
all,  it  had  become  a  weight  that  oppressed  his 
days.  And  it  was  all  based,  this  trouble,  upon 
so  airy  and  intangible  a  thing  as  dreams. 

In  his  congregation,  a  regular  attendant, 
though  not  a  member  of  the  church,  was  a 
woman  whose  acquaintance  he  had  made  soon 
after  his  first  coming,  but  who,  at  the  time,  had 
created  no  marked  impression  on  him.  This 
woman,  Mrs.  Emily  Leonard,  was  a  widow 
thirty-seven  or  thirty-eight  years  of  age,  quiet, 
well  mannered,  with  no  striking  characteristics 
and  on  the  whole,  as  Mr.  Graham  put  it  to  him- 
self later,  thoroughly  commonplace.  Her  hus- 
band, he  learned,  had  been  a  well-to-do  business 
man,  and  after  his  death,  having  no  children, 
she  had  interested  herself  in  good  works  of 
various  sorts  and  was  held  in  general  esteem. 
She  indicated  no  special  interest  in  the  new 
pastor  and  he  saw  her  only  casually,  yet  it  was 
of  this  woman  that  he  had,  one  night  not  long 
after  his  arrival,  a  singular  and  most  vivid 
dream. 

In  this  dream  she  was  not  quite  the  same 


106          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

Mrs.  Leonard  as  the  one  he  knew,  yet  there 
was  no  mistaking  her  identity.  Instead  of  the 
courteous  and  even  deferential  manner  which 
he  already  associated  with  her,  this  woman  of 
his  sleeping  vision  was  arrogant  and  autocratic. 
She  made  no  requests,  as  one  who  would  be  fa- 
vored; she  commanded,  and  her  orders  related 
to  Mr.  Graham's  procedure  as  a  minister. 
Among  these  orders  were  instructions  as  to  his 
coming  sermon.  She  gave  his  text,  "I  am  thy 
servant,  and  the  son  of  thine  handmaid.'* 
"Preach  from  that  next  Sunday,"  she  said  in 
a  voice  of  command. 

The  dream  remained  with  him  the  next  day 
and  he  wondered  over  it,  but  he  did  not  base  his 
sermon  on  the  text  specified.  When  he  was  in 
his  pulpit  on  Sunday,  however,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  services,  he  suddenly  recalled  that 
dream  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  wondered  how 
Mrs.  Leonard  would  be  pleased  with  what  he 
was  saying,  and  watched  her  face  for  approv- 
al; for  he  had  put  thought  and  heart  into  his 
discourse  and  felt  that  it  was  good.  But  all  he 
could  read  in  her  placid  countenance  was  po- 
lite, though  not  absorbed,  attention. 

That  night  he  dreamed  of  her  again.    This 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          107 

time  she  showed  cold  displeasure,  even  anger. 
"You  disobeyed  me,"  she  said.  "Do  so  again 
and  you  will  regret  it.  If  you  do  not  take  that 
text  I  gave  you,  you  shall  be  punished." 
Thoughts  of  the  curious  dream  came  to  him 
from  time  to  time  through  the  week  and  he  felt 
vaguely  annoyed.  The  temptation  came  to 
him  to  follow  the  injunction  and  use  the  text 
dictated  to  him  merely  to  see  what  would  fol- 
low, but  he  dismissed  the  idea  and  again  chose 
his  own  theme.  Once  more,  after  the  delivery 
of  the  second  sermon,  he  dreamed  of  Mrs. 
Leonard.  This  time  her  anger  was  uncon- 
trolled. There  was  a  gleam  of  fire  in  her  eyes 
as  she  ordered  him  to  kneel  before  her.  In  his 
dream  he  felt  a  wish  to  resist,  but  not  the  power, 
and  so  knelt  humbly  at  her  feet,  with  head 
bowed.  Then,  upon  his  bent  back  and  shoulders 
she  rained  blows  with  a  whip  she  carried  until 
the  keen  pain  he  felt  could  be  endured,  it 
seemed,  no  longer,  and  he  awoke. 

That  week  the  matter  bore  upon  his  mind 
heavily.  He  wondered  what  it  meant;  what 
peculiar  psychological  element  brought  him 
into  association  with  this  undistinguished  mem- 
ber of  his  congregation  even  in  dreams.  Was 


108          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

it  a  hypnotic  influence?  Was  she  consciously 
exercising  any  power  over  him  ?  He  could  not 
believe  it,  but  his  curiosity  led  him  to  a  wish  for 
a  closer  acquaintance,  so  he  made  a  pastoral 
call  the  excuse  for  a  study  of  her  characteris- 
tics. 

She  was  courteous  and  even  gracious,  but 
she  was  also  very  colorless,  not  a  person  of 
positive  convictions  on  any  subject  apparently, 
and  while  fairly  intelligent  and  able  to  discuss 
with  understanding  the  ordinary  topics  of  the 
day,  was  not  of  an  intellectual  type  or  possessed 
of  the  culture  that  distinguished  many  of  the 
other  women  of  his  congregation.  He  made 
rather  a  prolonged  stay  and  opened  up  various 
avenues  of  conversation,  among  other  things 
touching  purposely,  though  with  seeming  care- 
lessness, upon  the  occult — dreams,  subcon- 
sciousness,  hypnotism,  telepathy,  magic.  She 
looked  at  him  rather  blankly  and  indicated  a 
distaste  for  the  subject.  She  said  she  did  not 
understand  such  things  and  thought  discussion 
of  them  unprofitable.  Her  idea  seemed  to  be 
that  anything  occult  led  somehow  to  spiritual- 
ism, and  spiritualism  to  her  meant  something 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

low,  if  not  actually  criminal.    He  went  away 
puzzled  and  baffled. 

After  that  call  he  dreamed  again.    This  time 
it  seemed  to  him  that  his  visitor  was  sad  rather 
than  angry,  but  again  she  ordered  him  to  fol- 
low the  instructions  she  had  given  before.  That 
week  he  wrote  a  sermon  based  on  the  text,  "I 
am  thy  servant,  and  the  son  of  thine  hand- 
maid," and  delivered  it  from  his  pulpit  the 
next  Sunday.    In  spite  of  himself  he  watched 
the  face  of  Mrs.  Leonard  to  see  if  he  could  de- 
tect a  sign  of  consciousness,  though  he  told 
himself  it  was  folly  to  suspect  that  she  had 
knowledge  of  the  curious  influence  she  was  ex- 
ercising over  him.    The  sermon  dealt  with  the 
beauty  of  service  from  one  human  creature  to 
another  and  was  forcible  and  at  the  same  time 
poetic,  and  even  spiritual.     In  the  dream  she 
had  not  indicated  how  he  should  treat  the  text 
and  he  wondered  if  he  should  learn  whether  or 
not  his  shadow  visitor  was  pleased.    He  knew 
it  was  an  effective  address ;  a  sensitive  speaker 
knows  without  being  told  when  he  is  pleasing 
his  audience.    Approval  is  somehow  in  the  at- 
mosphere.    He  received  many  compliments 


110          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

afterward,  but  none  from  Mrs.  Leonard,  and 
he  was  conscious  of  a  desire  to  know  what  the 
real  woman  thought;  for,  try  as  he  would,  he 
could  not  hold  her  apart  from  the  person  of 
the  dream.  She  had  gained  a  hold  upon  him  al- 
ready that  he  resented,  while  at  the  same  time 
he  unconsciously  encouraged  it. 

The  dream  visitor  did  come,  and  he  knew 
when  he  awoke  that  she  had  indicated  approval, 
although  he  did  not  remember  her  words,  if 
any  were  spoken. 

Then  several  weeks  went  by  and  there  was 
no  repetition  of  his  sleeping  fantasies  and  he 
had  half  forgotten  them,  when  one  night  the 
vision — for  the  vividness  of  these  experiences 
made  them  more  like  reality  than  dreams — 
came  to  him  again.  This  time  the  command 
given  did  not  relate  to  a  sermon,  but  to  a  dif- 
erent  pastoral  service.  He  was  told  to  go  the 
next  day  and  pray  with  a  certain  parishioner, 
an  old  man,  not  ill  so  far  as  he  knew,  nor  desir- 
ous of  his  services.  He  did  not  wish  to  go  when 
the  next  day  came;  he  said  to  himself  that  he 
would  not  go;  but  he  went,  and  felt  that  the 
parishioner  looked  upon  him  as  intrusive. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  an  experience 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          111 

that  had  continued  intermittently  for  two 
years.  Sometimes  dreams  in  which  Mrs. 
Leonard  figured  would  come  nightly  for  a 
week  at  a  time;  sometimes  several  weeks  would 
elapse  in  which  he  was  free  from  them.  Some- 
times she  would  dictate  the  character  of  his  ser- 
mons, her  preference  in  themes,  he  noted,  being 
toward  those  relating  to  serving:  "Like  as  ye 
have  forsaken  me,  and  served  strange  gods  in 
your  land,  so  shall  ye  serve  strangers  in  a  land 
that  is  not  yours";  "That  servant,  which  knows 
his  Lord's  will,  and  prepared  not  himself, 
neither  did  according  to  his  will,  shall  be  beat- 
en with  many  stripes."  Sometimes  she  con- 
tented herself  with  indicating  certain  minor 
pastoral  duties.  Sometimes  she  merely  came 
and  went,  giving  no  other  sign. 

Not  always  did  he  obey  her.  Again  and 
again  he  ignored  his  dreams,  refused  to  con- 
sider them,  put  them  away  from  him  as  foolish 
or  as  manifestations  of  evil,  but  as  often  as  he 
did  so  came  the  visitant  in  a  fury,  bearing  the 
scourge. 

They  were  only  dreams,  but  they  were  op- 
pressive and  their  shadow  fell  over  his  days. 
Sometimes  the  dream  visitor  smiled,  but 


112          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

whether  approval  or  displeasure  was  indi- 
cated, whether  the  dreams  came  frequently  or 
at  long  intervals,  it  came  about  that  the  Rev- 
erend John  Graham  had  Mrs.  Leonard  in  mind 
when  he  prepared  his  sermons  and  that  against 
his  will  he  preached  to  her  from  the  pulpit. 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  that  he  did  not  fight 
against  what  he  regarded  as  a  hateful  expe- 
rience, a  hindrance  to  his  peace.  While  he 
could  not  say  that  his  sermons  showed  any  the 
less  thought  or  merit  than  before  this  influence 
came  upon  him,  yet  he  fretted  under  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  being  influenced 
against  his  will.  He  was  a  sincerely  religious 
man,  who  believed  the  doctrines  that  he 
preached,  and  he  prayed  earnestly  and  often 
to  be  relieved  from  the  strange  burden. 

He  reflected  a  good  deal  on  the  psychology 
of  the  matter.  There  was  not  the  least  senti- 
ment connected  with  it.  He  had  scarcely  real- 
ized the  existence  of  Mrs.  Leonard  before  the 
dreams  attracted  his  attention  to  her,  and  since 
that  time  the  annoyance  caused  by  the  dreams 
had  made  her  society  and  her  personality 
rather  objectionable  to  him  than  otherwise. 
Though  unmarried,  he  was  not  a  "ladies'  man" 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          113 

in  the  ordinary  sense  of  that  term,  yet  he  was 
at  ease  in  the  company  of  women.  He  was  not 
morbid  in  any  respect,  so  far  as  he  could  dis- 
cover in  studying  his  own  mental  state.  He 
was  fond  of  out-of-door  athletics;  he  walked 
and  rode  a  great  deal  and  was  altogether  in 
good  condition  physically,  and  with  no  cob- 
webs on  his  brain  except  those  that  were  woven 
by  the  dreams. 

Concluding  from  his  studies  of  mental  oper- 
ations as  pursued  in  college  that  he  had  per- 
haps formed  a  habit  of  dreaming  in  one  line — 
the  first  dream  in  which  Mrs.  Leonard  figured 
having  been  a  mere  unaccountable  vagary  of 
sleep,  its  peculiarity  creating  an  impression 
that  led  to  further  mental  action  of  the  same 
sort,  he  saw  that  the  obvious  course  in  such  case 
was  to  change  the  condition  of  mind  and  so 
break  the  subtle  connection  of  his  sleeping 
with  his  waking  thoughts.  He  hoped,  there- 
fore, that  his  summer  vacation  would  effect  a 
cure,  and  went  away  hopefully  on  his  first 
one.  It  was  a  vacation  spent  among  old  col- 
lege friends  and  among  new  scenes,  and  not 
once  during  the  weeks  of  absence  did  his  sleep- 
ing visions  include  Mrs.  Leonard. 


114          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

He  went  home  with  his  mind  so  full  of  new 
thoughts — he  was  young  and  life  was  rich — 
that  he  had  practically  forgotten  the  disagree- 
able experience  of  the  early  months  of  his  pas- 
torate. The  second  night  after  his  return  the 
vision  of  Mrs.  Leonard  appeared  and  wrote 
upon  the  wall  before  him,  "Preach  from  Levit- 
icus, 25:45  and  46."  That  was  all,  but  some- 
how, though  in  his  waking  moments  he  could 
not  recall  the  chapter,  he  knew  in  his  sleep  that 
it  held  the  words,  "They  should  be  your  bond- 
men forever."  Again  the  idea  of  subjection! 

He  did  not  preach  from  that  text,  and  after- 
ward in  his  sleep  he  was  scourged.  He  began 
to  wonder  if  his  mind  was  becoming  unbal- 
anced, but  he  dreaded  to  consult  a  physician, 
for  the  situation  was  one  that  no  doctor  could 
remedy.  What  could  science  do  with  dreams, 
how  control  them?  Then,  on  an  excuse  of 
obliging  a  friend,  an  old  classmate  who  needed 
a  change  of  climate,  he  exchanged  pulpits  with 
him  for  three  months.  He  would  be  relieved 
from  the  obsession  for  a  time  at  least,  he 
thought.  But  he  was  not.  In  that  distant  par- 
ish he  was  visited  by  the  same  dreams. 

When  he  returned  he  knew  that  something 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          115 

had  to  be  done,  but  what?  Either  he  must  be 
free  from  the  torment  or  he  must  leave  the  pul- 
pit. He  could  not  longer  endure  the  bondage ; 
that  was  the  word,  bondage ;  and  there  was 
another  reason.  Within  the  last  six  months  he 
had  met  the  "only  girl  in  the  world,"  and  but 
for  the  haunting  specter  of  his  sleep  life  would 
have  been  made  new  to  him.  Up  to  that  time 
he  had  fancied  that  he  preferred  a  celibate 
clergy  and  cherished  rather  lofty  ideas  of  re- 
maining unmarried.  Now  he  was  aware  that 
life  would  be  very  dark  without  the  one  girl 
— the  sweet  daughter  of  one  of  his  parish- 
ioners— as  his  wife.  But  he  had  not  asked  her 
to  share  his  future.  There  were  two  reasons 
for  this  hesitancy.  If  it  were  true  that  the  ob- 
session from  which  he  suffered  meant  an  in- 
cipient malady — he  had  been  unable  to  find 
trace  of  insanity  in  the  remotest  branch  of  his 
family — then  it  would  be  wrong  for  him  to 
marry.  If  he  could  not  rid  himself  of  the 
maddening  dreams  he  must  abandon  the  pulpit 
and  seek  another  calling. 

The  visitations,  too,  were  taking  on  a  uni- 
formly malicious  phase.  The  dream  visitor  set 
fantastic  tasks  for  him  to  do;  to  call  upon  and 


116          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

pray  with  people  who  were  not  of  his  flock  and 
had  indicated  no  wish  to  see  him,  much  less  to 
be  prayed  with;  to  preach  on  absurd  themes;  to 
make  false  statements.  These  things  he  did 
not  do,  but  he  suffered  through  not  doing 
them,  for  the  shadow  of  his  dreams  was  on  his 
waking  hours  and  his  heart  was  oppressed. 

At  last  he  aroused  his  courage  and  consulted 
a  physician — an  alienist,  a  man  of  wide  expe- 
rience in  mental  diseases  and  one  of  the  coun- 
try's noted  students  of  psychology.  The  wise 
man  listened,  pondered  and  then  reassured 
him.  "Your  mind  is  normal,"  he  said.  "You 
need  have  no  fears  about  that.  In  sleep,  the 
mental  action  is  a  little  irregular  and  the  irreg- 
ularity has  become  a  habit,  like  the  habits  we 
form  of  doing  things  mechanically  at  certain 
times  of  day — stopping  work  at  a  fixed  hour, 
winding  a  watch,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  so  on." 

This  was  no  new  thought;  the  point  was,  how 
to  cure  the  irregularity,  to  break  the  habit.  He 
had  already  tried  some  experiments  to  that 
end. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  the  doctor,  "go  abroad 
for  a  year,  marry,  go  to  another  church — any- 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          117 

thing  that  will  completely  break  up  your  rou- 
tine and  the  current  of  your  thought.  The 
daily  life  is  bound  to  affect  your  dreams." 

Mr.  Graham  did  not  feel  that  he  had  learned 
much  in  return  for  the  very  large  fee,  though 
the  assurance  that  his  mental  faculties  were 
sound  was  comforting.  Before  he  married, 
which  was  the  part  of  the  prescription  he  was 
willing  to  take,  he  wished  to  be  rid  of  the 
dreams. 

He  had  often  felt  an  impulse  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Leonard  and  tell  her  the  story  and  get  her 
interpretation,  but  had  been  restrained  by  the 
fear  that  she  would  misinterpret  the  experi- 
ence. He  had  even  had  a  curious  belief  that  if 
she  would  actually  strike  him  a  blow  with 
a  whip,  as  her  shadow  had  done  many  a  time 
in  his  sleep,  it  would  break  the  spell.  One 
day  not  long  after  his  visit  to  the  doctor  he 
suddenly  yielded  to  the  inclination  and  went  to 
see  the  lady.  Once  in  her  presence  he  found 
that  he  could  not  speak  frankly  of  an  affair 
that  had  the  flavor  of  the  occult,  and  would  at 
least  be  an  impenetrable  mystery  to  this  mat- 
ter-of-fact, rather  dull  and  entirely  common- 


118          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

place  woman.  But  not  to  be  balked  entirely 
he  remarked  lightly,  after  a  little  preliminary 
conversation  on  the  events  of  the  day: 

"Mrs.  Leonard,  I  dreamed  the  other  night 
that  you  gave  me  a  text  for  a  sermon  and  or- 
dered me  to  preach  upon  it.  The  same  thing 
has  happened  before.  Were  you  a  minister  in 
some  past  stage  of  existence  do  you  suppose? 
I  have  wondered  if  you  didn't  like  my  sermons 
and  wished  to  improve  on  them." 

This  was  said  with  a  smile  as  if  it  were  of  no 
consequence,  but  he  looked  intently  at  his  host- 
ess to  see,  if  by  a  gleam  of  the  eye  or  the 
shadow  of  a  thought  she  would  betray  an  ear- 
lier knowledge  of  the  fact  he  had  mentioned; 
but  not  the  most  suspicious  observer  could  de- 
tect anything  more  than  the  most  unaffected 
surprise  and  possibly  a  slight  displeasure  as 
if  an  undue  liberty  were  being  taken  in  merely 
mentioning  that  she  had  been  dreamed  about. 

"I  am  sure,  Mr.  Graham,"  she  said  rather 
stiffly,  "that  I  interest  myself  very  little  in  ser- 
mons of  any  sort,  and  I'm  sure  I  should  never 
venture  to  improve  on  yours.  Really,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  if  you  won't  be  offended,  I 
don't  care  much  for  sermons,  although  every- 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          119 

body  says  yours  are  especially  fine.  I'm  the 
last  one  to  be  making  suggestions  about  them." 

Certainly  no  light  was  thrown  on  the  mys- 
tery by  this  rather  unflattering  remark.  Other 
callers  coming  in  at  the  moment,  conversation 
became  general  and  the  subject  was  not  re- 
ferred to  again.  But  a  little  later,  as  Mrs. 
Leonard  turned  away  to  usher  some  visitors 
out,  a  strange  thing  happened.  Instead  of  the 
dull  brick  wall  of  the  house  opposite  at  which 
he  had  been  gazing  through  the  open  window, 
he  had  a  vision  of  a  scene  far  distant  in  space, 
and,  as  he  somehow  knew,  in  time. 

A  woman,  wearing  a  purple  robe,  stood  in  a 
paved  court;  back  of  her  was  a  marble  wall 
and  near  by  a  fountain  splashed.  Beyond  were 
olive  trees  and  a  hillside  up  which  a  vineyard 
crept.  Before  her  knelt  a  youth  scantily 
clothed.  With  anger  in  her  face  she  struck 
him  upon  his  bowed  back  and  naked  shoulders. 
He  was  a  slave,  she  the  mistress,  and  she 
scourged  her  bondman  for  some  misdemeanor. 
The  man  looking  on  from  the  little  twentieth- 
century  room  knew — he  could  not  tell  how  he 
knew — that  he  had  once  knelt  there,  that  he 
was  the  youth  and  that  he  hated  the  woman 


120          OUT    OF    THE    PAST 

with  a  bitter  and  helpless  hatred.  Arid  the 
woman — he  could  not  see  her  face — but  he 
knew  her. 

The  vision  faded.  Where  the  fountain  and 
the  olive  trees  had  been  was  the  dingy  brick 
wall  again.  It  had  lasted  but  a  moment,  this 
picture,  but  he  had  seen.  He  rose  to  say  fare- 
well, and  then  came  another  surprise.  Mrs. 
Leonard  detained  him,  showing  a  little  em- 
barrassment. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  I  expect 
not  to  be  a  member  of  your  congregation  much 
longer.  I  am  to  be  married  soon  and  my  home 
will  be  in  Calfornia.  I  lived  there  as  a  girl 
and  am  marrying  a  man  I  knew  there  when  he 
was  a  boy." 

Mr.  Graham  hoped  afterward  that  he  ex- 
pressed the  sentiments  proper  to  the  occasion, 
but  could  not  recall  his  words.  As  he  walked 
up  the  street  he  said  to  himself:  "So  that  was 
was  it.  So  that  was  it." 

He  had  never  believed  in  reincarnation.  He 
had  always  classed  such  doctrine  as  nonsense. 
Theories  of  the  occult  had  interested  him  but 
little.  But  he  had  only  one  thought  now — that 
here  was  the  explanation.  So  that  was  it — a 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST          121 

strange  haunting  reminiscence  of  the  time 
when  he  was  a  slave,  ages  ago,  brought  down 
from  the  far-off  life  and  modified  by  the  con- 
ditions of  the  new. 

Later,  the  vision  seemed  a  dream  like  the 
rest,  but  it  was  a  vision  of  waking  moments, 
and  he  has  not  since  been  so  sure  as  he  was  be- 
fore that  all  the  truths  of  existence  are  em- 
bodied in  the  teachings  of  the  faith  to  which  he 
was  born  and  in  the  mathematically  demon- 
strated conclusions  of  modern  science. 

But  that  day,  as  he  walked  down  the  street 
of  Eastport  he  felt  that  the  cloud  over  him 
was  passing.  If  that  was  the  secret,  that  in 
another  life  he  had  been  a  slave,  he  was  not  a 
slave  now  and  could  defy  the  past  and  disre- 
gard his  dreams.  Even  while  he  thought  this 
his  matter-of-fact,  orthodox,  twentieth-century 
mind  rebelled,  but  he  went  back  to  the  reflec- 
tion and  found  comfort.  Besides  the  other 
link  with  the  past,  she  who  had  been  the  owner 
of  slaves,  was  going  away.  That  would  help 
to  break  the  bond.  His  heart  grew  light;  the 
world  looked  bright  to  him  once  more. 

That  was  three  years  ago.    The  dearest  girl 


122          OUT   OF   THE    PAST 

in  the  world  has  been  his  wife  for  the  greater 
part  of  that  time  and  life  has  been  very  sweet 
and  peaceful.  He  is  still  a  loved  pastor  of  the 
church  at  Eastport,  and  he  has  no  more  dreams 
of  scourgings,  no  more  dream  commands  re- 
lating to  his  work.  Sometimes  the  thought  of 
the  old  obsession  comes  to  him,  but  not  often, 
and  he  turns  away  from  it  quickly.  It  is  a 
hateful  remembrance.  The  other  day  it  was 
recalled  to  him  by  a  piece  of  news.  Mrs.  Leon- 
ard, now  Mrs.  Hood  and  once  more  a  widow, 
was  thinking  of  returning  to  Eastport  for  resi- 
dence. His  well-regulated  nerves  had  a  dis- 
tinct shock;  he  shivered  a  little,  and  looking 
ahead,  he  wondered,  and  mingled  with  the 
wonder  was  dread. 


WHEN  GRANDMOTHER  RAN 
AWAY 

GRANDMOTHER  JACKSON  had 
not  spoken  to  Grandfather  for  four 
days ;  that  is,  she  had  indulged  in  only  the  re- 
marks that  were  absolutely  necessary,  such  as 
concerned  household  affairs,  asking  him  at  the 
table  if  he  wished  another  cup  of  coffee  or 
more  griddle  cakes,  and  routine  matters  of  that 
sort.  To  confine  herself  to  this  limited  com- 
munication was  equivalent  with  Grandmother 
to  no  speech  at  all,  for  she  was  voluble  by  na- 
ture and  habit,  what  is  known  as  a  great  talker. 
She  talked  constantly  when  any  one  was  pres- 
ent to  hear,  and  people  had  said  that  she  talked 
to  herself  when  no  one  was  within  reach,  but 
that  was  probably  a  slander.  And  she  liked  to 
have  other  people  talk  to  a  reasonable  degree. 
Her  last  conversation  with  Grandfather  on 
outside  matters  had  been  four  days  before 
when  she  read  in  the  weekly  Banner  of  the  ap- 
plication for  divorce  of  their  old  friends,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Abner  Wilson,  who  had  been  married 

123 


124  GRANDMOTHER 

for  forty  years,  Mrs.  Wilson  bringing  the  suit 
on  the  ground  of  extreme  cruelty. 

"I'm  not  surprised,  I'm  not  a  bit  surprised," 
said  Grandmother.  "Abner  Wilson  always  was 
mean  and  overbearing  and  I've  often  won- 
dered how  Martha  could  stand  his  bossy  ways. 
She  never  could  go  anywhere  without  asking 
him  and  explaining  all  about  it,  and  more  than 
likely  he'd  that  minute  decide  that  he  wanted 
something  done  right  off  and  would  keep  her 
at  home,  mending  his  grain  bags  or  the  horse's 
fly-nets,  or  making  new  overalls — he  never 
would  buy  overalls  ready  made  for  himself  or 
the  boys.  It  was  anything  to  interfere  with  her 
plans.  And  he  wouldn't  take  her  anywhere. 
When  she  wanted  to  go  to  town  to  do  some 
trading,  chances  were  that  he'd  make  an  ex- 
cuse for  not  taking  her,  even  though  he  was 
going  right  there  himself." 

Here  Grandmother  looked  meaningly  at 
Grandfather — a  look  of  which  he  seemed  quite 
unconscious. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  she  went  on,  "that  Abner 
was  actually  mean  enough  to  beat  her.  I  never 
thought  he  was  that  kind.  (But  there's  other 
cruelty  than  beating,  and  paying  no  attention 


GRANDMOTHER  125 

to  what  a  woman  wants  is  one  of  them.  I  re- 
member once — " 

Here  Grandfather  seemed  suddenly  to  be 
aware  of  what  Grandmother  was  saying,  and 
snorted. 

"Cruelty?  Rubbish!  Martha  Wilson's  a  fool. 
If  she's  stood  Abner  for  forty  years  she  ought 
to  stick  it  out  for  the  rest  of  her  life." 

This  was  an  unusual  outburst  from  Grand- 
father, for  he  was  by  disposition  and  habit 
a  reticent  man  and  was  not  given  to  saying 
harsh  things  of  people  under  any  provocation. 

Grandmother  was  a  little  surprised  at  his 
emphasis,  but  went  on  with  her  discourse,  for- 
getting her  reminiscent  anecdote,  however. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that.  When  a  woman 
is  abused  and  downtrodden  and  put  upon  with- 
out reason,  and  when  she's  got  to  that  point 
where  she  just  can't  endure  it  another  day,  I 
don't  see  any  reason  why  she  shouldn't  have  a 
little  peace  at  the  end  of  her  life.  Now,  Martha 
could  have  real  comfort  if  she'd  go  and  live 
with  her  daughter  Maria.  Maria's  a  widow, 
you  know,  and  well  fixed,  and  she  and  her 
mother  always  got  along  well,  and  I'm  sure 
they'd  be  glad  to  be  together  again.  It  would 


126  GRANDMOTHER 

be  nice  for  both.  I  expect  that's  where  she'll 
go.  I  saw  Maria  the  last  time  I  was  in  town. 
We  met  in  Lyon's  store  and  had  quite  a  talk. 
She  was  buying  material  for  new  bedroom  cur- 
tains. Pretty  stuff  it  was,  too,  an  all-over 
flowered  pattern.  She  didn't  speak  of  any 
trouble  between  her  father  and  mother,  as  she 
might  naturally  have  done,  seeing  as  we're  such 
old  family  friends.  Some  folks  are  so  close- 
mouthed!  To  be  sure,  it  is  some  time  since  I 
saw  her — all  of  six  weeks  since  I  was  in  town 
last.  And  that  reminds  me,  I  must  go  again. 
I  need  a  new  dress  for  spring  and  some  shoes, 
and  you  need  some  shirts  and  I've  got  to  get 
my  bonnet  freshened  up.  And  if  you're  going 
to  town  to-day  I'm  going  with  you." 

Before  she  was  through  with  her  mono- 
logue Grandfather  was  leaving  the  house.  She 
hurried  after  him.  It  was  nothing  out  of  the 
ordinary  for  him  to  walk  out  in  the  middle  of 
her  remarks  as  if  he  had  never  heard  them,  and 
she  was  used  to  that,  but  this  time  she  wanted 
an  answer. 

The  reply  she  got  was  not  favorable  evi- 
dently, for  she  came  in  with  her  cheeks  flushed 
and  a  look  of  displeasure  on  her  usually  smi- 


GRANDMOTHER          127 

ling  face  and  went  about  her  work  with  a  nerv- 
ous activity  that  meant  serious  irritation  or, 
as  her  children  used  to  say,  that  she  was  cross. 
Presently  she  picked  up  the  weekly  Banner 
and  read  the  account  of  the  Wilson  divorce 
suit  again.  She  sat  there  a  good  while  with  the 
paper  in  her  hand.  Grandmother  was  think- 
ing. It  was  then  that  the  period  of  silence  be- 
gan which  was  so  remarkable  a  departure  for 
her. 

For  four  days  Grandmother  had  gone  on 
thinking.  The  Wilson  affair  had  given  her  an 
idea  and  she  turned  it  over  in  her  mind.  Cru- 
elty— of  course  cruelty  meant  a  good  deal 
more  than  beating  any  one  with  the  fists.  If 
Grandfather  hadn't  been  cruel  to  her,  oh,  for 
weeks  and  weeks,  then  she'd  like  to  know  what 
cruelty  was.  She  didn't  know  whether  she 
would  finally  get  a  divorce  or  not,  but  she 
meant  to  leave  him  for  a  while  anyway,  she 
concluded.  She'd  show  him!  At  first  the 
idea  of  going  was  a  shock  to  her,  but  the 
more  she  thought  of  what  she  had  been 
through  the  more  she  felt  that  he  deserved 
to  be  punished.  And  there  was  no  better 
time  than  right  now,  she  finally  decided. 


128  GRANDMOTHER 

The  house  was  in  order.  She  wouldn't  be 
ashamed  to  have  any  one  look  into  any  corner 
of  it.  She  would  go  to  her  daughter  Jane's, 
over  in  Lawrence  township.  Jane  had  often 
said  she  wished  Father  and  Mother  would 
break  up  housekeeping  and  make  their  home 
with  her  and  her  husband.  Well,  Father  could 
go  somewhere  else — to  John's  or  Sally's  if  he 
liked,  or  he  could  get  one  of  Sally's  girls  to 
come  and  keep  house  for  him.  For  her  part 
she  was  done  with  being  ill-treated.  Again 
that  morning  he  had  hitched  up  and  started  off 
on  one  of  his  mysterious  trips  to  town  without 
a  word  of  explanation,  without  asking  her  if 
she  wanted  to  go  or  if  she  needed  anything  or 
acting  as  if  he  knew  she  was  alive. 

It  was  four  miles  to  Jane's,  but  it  was  a 
pretty  April  morning  and  Grandmother 
thought  she  could  walk  the  distance  if  she  gave 
herself  time,  and  very  likely  she  could  get  a 
chance  to  ride  part  way  in  some  farmer's 
wagon.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  traffic  over 
the  Rock  Creek  Road. 

So  when  Grandfather  had  fairly  gone, 
Grandmother  wrote  a  brief  note  with  fingers 
that  trembled  a  little  from  excitement  and 


GRANDMOTHER  129 

pinned  it  to  the  table-cloth  at  Grandfather's 
place  at  the  kitchen  table  where  they  ate  their 
meals  when  there  was  no  company,  and  where 
an  appetizing  cold  lunch  was  spread  under  a 
white  cloth. 

"There's  plenty  to  eat  in  the  cupboard  for  a 
day  or  two  and  by  that  time  he  can  make  some 
arrangement,"  she  said  to  herself. 

Then  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  wrap,  took 
a  small  satchel  with  a  few  of  her  belongings — 
she  would  send  later  for  the  rest  of  her  things 
— and  locked  the  doors,  put  the  back  door-key 
under  the  mat  on  the  kitchen  step  where 
Grandfather  would  find  it,  and  turned  her 
back  on  the  house. 

Her  cheeks  were  red  and  her  eyes  bright. 
She  stepped  briskly  and  neither  looked  about 
nor  lingered.  Grandfather  had  taken  care  of 
the  cow  and  the  chickens.  The  dog  had  fol- 
lowed him  to  town,  the  cat  was  asleep  on  the 
roof  of  the  shed  and  there  was  no  live  creature 
to  note  her  going,  the  tenant  farmer  being  at 
work  half  a  mile  away. 

It  was  very  still  that  morning.  Sounds  went 
far  as  they  do  when  rain  is  not  many  hours 
away,  but  Grandmother  did  not  consciously 


130  GRANDMOTHER 

note  these  things.  No  one  seemed  to  be  travel- 
ing her  way,  though  she  met  several  vehicles. 
She  nodded  to  people  she  knew,  and  one  or  two 
halted  their  horses,  with  obvious  intent  to  chat 
and  doubtless,  incidentally,  to  learn  where  she 
was  going.  But  she  did  not  respond  to  their 
overtures  and  went  quickly  on  with  head  held 
high,  leading  the  neighbors  to  remark  on  the 
strange  manner  of  one  usually  so  voluble  and 
to  wonder  at  it. 

When  she  had  walked  nearly  two  miles  and 
reached  the  top  of  Lookout  Hill,  she  suddenly 
felt  weak  and  weary  and  sank  down  on  a  log 
by  the  side  of  the  road.  From  the  summit  of 
Lookout  one  could  see  far  in  every  direction. 
A  long  stretch  of  the  road  that  Grandfather 
had  taken  to  town  was  visible  and  the  roof  and 
orchard  of  their  home  were  plainly  to  be  seen. 

Grandmother  turned  her  face  that  way. 
Evidently  she  was  thinking  again,  for  tears 
came  into  her  eyes. 

Suddenly  she  stood  up  to  look  and  listen. 
The  town  road  was  in  the  nearer  distance;  a 
wagon  was  rattling  over  it  at  a  great  pace — a 
wagon  to  which  was  hitched  a  pair  of  white 
horses.  She  could  plainly  detect  the  patch  of 


white  against  the  brown  line  of  the  thorough- 
fare. Could  it  be  that  Grandfather  was  going 
back  home?  It  looked  as  if  his  team  were  run- 
ning away.  In  the  stillness  she  could  hear  the 
rattle  of  the  wagon.  It  sounded  like  their  own 
wagon.  She  had  told  Grandfather  two  weeks 
before  to  have  the  bolts  tightened,  but  he  had 
paid  no  attention  to  her.  Something  must 
have  happened.  Grandfather  might  be  hurt, 
he  might  have  fainted  or  he  might  be  sick,  or 
the  horses  might  have  got  the  better  of  him 
somehow.  And  he  would  get  home  and  she 
not  there ! 

She  started  down  the  hill  on  a  run.  Before 
she  reached  its  foot  a  carriage  came  up  behind 
her.  She  turned,  intending  to  ask  the  occu- 
pants to  take  her  in,  to  tell  them  she  was  in 
haste,  and,  behold,  her  two  daughters,  Jane  and 
Sally!  They  stopped  in  amazement  and  she 
clambered  in. 

"Hurry,  hurry,"  she  cried,  "something  has 
happened  to  your  father.  Get  me  home  as 
quick  as  you  can.  He'll  expect  me  to  be  there, 
and  I'll  not  be  there.  Oh,  hurry!  Whip  your 
horse." 

Grandmother   was   trembling  with   excite- 


132  GRANDMOTHER 

ment  and  it  was  some  time  before  Her  daugh- 
ters, comfortable  middle-aged  matrons,  could 
get  any  explanation  from  her.  Finally  she 
quieted  down  a  little  and  began  to  talk,  evi- 
dently relieved  after  her  four  days'  silence,  to 
find  willing  listeners. 

"Girls,  I  was  leaving  your  father.  I  was 
leaving  his  house  for  good.  He  has  been  cruel 
to  me,  cruel,  I  tell  you,  for  weeks  and  weeks. 
Did  you  read  about  the  Wilsons?  Martha 
Wilson  had  to  get  a  divorce  from  Abner  be- 
cause he  was  cruel.  She  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer.  Well,  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer, 
either. 

"What  did  he  do?  Why,  he  didn't  do  any- 
thing he  ought  to  have  done.  He  forgot  that 
I  was  alive.  He  didn't  say  good-by  when  he 
went  away.  He  used  to  pat  me  on  the  cheek 
when  he  left  the  house  and  wave  his  hand  to  me 
when  he  drove  off  and  show  that  he  had  me  in 
mind,  and  he'd  bring  me  things  when  he  came 
back  from  town.  You  know  that.  A  box  of 
candy  or  something  new  that  the  storekeeper'd 
show  him — a  collar  or  a  ribbon  or  a  cute  little 
basket.  He  knew  what  I  liked. 

"And  then  this  winter  he  changed  so.    He 


GRANDMOTHER  133 

got  to  taking  so  many  trips  to  town  and  he'd 
never  tell  me  what  he  went  for  and  he'd  never 
let  me  go  along.  You  know,  girls,  he  never 
was  one  to  talk  about  his  business,  but  he'd 
always  tell  me  where  he'd  been  and  what  for, 
kind  of  human-like,  'specially  when  I'd  ask 
him. 

"But  he  got  so  close-mouthed  that  he 
wouldn't  talk  about  anything  that  I  wanted  to 
talk  about.  He  always  was  still  as  an  oyster, 
as  you  know,  but  this  was  worse.  Just  kept 
mum  and  pretended  not  to  hear  when  I  said 
anything.  And  after  a  trip  to  town  just  as 
likely  as  not  he'd  chuckle  to  himself  when  there 
was  not  a  thing  being  said.  And  when  I'd  ask 
what  he  was  laughing  at,  he  wouldn't  answer. 

"Ever  so  many  times  when  I'd  tell  him  I 
wanted  to  go  to  town,  he'd  tell  me  that  he  had 
to  drive  away  round  by  Joe  Mason's  and  stop  a 
while  and  he  knew  I  didn't  want  to  go  there. 
And  I  didn't,  but  I  didn't  see  why  I  shouldn't 
ride  to  town  with  him  as  well  as  that  young  chit 
of  a  Flossy  Mason,  and  I  know  she  went  with 
him  and  rode  back  with  him,  too,  time  after 
time.  He'd  speak  of  it  himself,  just  casual. 
Once  he  was  uncommonly  late  and  he  said  he'd 


134  GRANDMOTHER 

had  to  come  round  by  the  Masons,  and  their 
road  was  bad." 

Jane  and  Sally  looked  at  each  other  compre- 
hendingly  over  their  mother's  head.  They  un- 
derstood perfectly  that  she  had  no  vulgar  sus- 
picion of  any  unlawful  straying  of  their  fa- 
ther's affection.  Such  a  thing  was  not  in  her 
mind  at  all.  It  was  impossible  to  her.  She  had 
not  the  least  objection  to  his  taking  Flossy 
Mason  to  town  every  day  of  his  life  and  bring- 
ing her  home  again  if  it  was  in  his  way  and 
if  he  liked.  The  girl  was  of  no  consequence. 
What  disturbed  their  mother  was  that  she  her- 
self did  not  get  the  attention  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  from  her  husband  of  fifty  years. 
Like  a  petted  child  suddenly  neglected,  she 
felt  herself  snubbed  and  injured.  How  deeply 
injured  was  shown  by  the  desperate  resolve  she 
had  come  to. 

"But,  Mother,"  said  Sally,  "I  met  Father  on 
the  street  yesterday  and  he  said  he  was  afraid 
you  were  not  feeling  quite  well  and  thought 
we'd  better  drive  over,  and  that's  where  we 
were  going  when  we  overtook  you.  That  shows 
he  thinks  of  you." 

Grandmother  was  not  placated. 


GRANDMOTHER          135 

"He  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  inquire  if  I 
were  sick.  For  the  last  four  days  he's  been  to 
town  every  day  and  he  never  so  much  as  told 
me  he'd  seen  you,  though  he  might  have  known 
I'd  like  word,  shut  off  to  myself  so."  (It  was 
before  the  days  of  telephones  in  every  farm- 
house.) Here  Grandmother's  voice  dropped 
and  she  looked  a  little  shamefaced,  like  a 
naughty  child. 

"But,  girls,  I  hadn't  got  two  miles  before  I 
found  I  couldn't  go  any  farther  from  home. 
Your  father  may  be  cruel  and  forget  I'm  alive, 
but  I've  got  to  stand  him  and  look  after  him 
just  the  same.  And,  oh,  girls,  hurry!  I  am 
afraid  that  that  was  his  team  that  went  down 
the  road  so  fast  and  if  he  should  be  hurt — oh, 
girls!" 

Grandmother's  slim  little  frame  quivered 
with  nervous  excitement  and  she  leaned  for- 
ward in  the  carriage  as  if  she  could  thereby 
reach  home  the  sooner. 

"If  he  should  find  that  note  I  left  what 
would  he  think?  I  told  him  maybe  I'd  never 
come  back  and  he  might  think  I  meant  it.  I 
don't  believe  now  I  ever  really  did  mean  to 
leave  him.  I  don't  see  how  I  could.  Even  if  he 


186          GRANDMOTHER; 

doesn't  treat  me  right,  I  needn't  be  mean  to 
him.  I  couldn't  bear  to  have  him  depend  on 
other  people's  cooking.  You  know  he's  got  a 
bad  liver.  And  he  never  takes  the  right  kind  of 
care  of  himself ;  forgets  to  take  his  cough  med- 
icine and  to  wear  his  overcoat  when  he  ought  to 
and  to  change  his  clothes  when  he  gets  damp. 

"Can  you  see  anything  about  the  house, 
girls?  Your  eyes  are  better  than  mine.  The 
horses  and  wagon  standing  by  the  barn?  Oh, 
he  never  leaves  them  there.  Something  must 
have  happened!  Do  make  that  horse  go." 

As  the  horse  turned  in  toward  the  gate, 
Grandmother  scrambled  out  over  the  wheel  al- 
most before  the  vehicle  came  to  a  halt  and  be- 
fore her  less  active  daughters  could  stop  her. 
She  ran  back  to  where  the  old  white  horses 
stood  not  yet  unharnessed,  and  Jane  and 
Sally,  hurrying  after,  turned  the  corner  of  the 
house  in  time  to  see  their  mother  hurl  herself 
upon  their  father  as  he  was  approaching  the 
door,  exclaiming:  "Are  you  hurt,  John?  Are 
you  hurt?  Did  the  horses  run  away?  What 
are  you  back  so  early  for?"  and  to  see  her  cry 
like  a  child  with  her  head  against  his  arm. 

Grandfather,   looking   a  little   bewildered, 


GRANDMOTHER  187 

patted  and  hugged  and  soothed  her  as  if  she 
had  been  ten  years  old. 

"What's  the  matter,  Mother?  What's  the 
trouble?  Nothing's  the  matter  with  me.  I  hur- 
ried home  to  tell  you  a  piece  of  news.  I've  sold 
the  south  forty  to  Joe  Mason — clinched  the 
bargain  this  morning — and  I  made  him  pay  fif- 
teen hundred  dollars  more  than  he  ever  expect- 
ed to  pay.  You  know  he's  always  wanted  the 
land,  and  I've  always  meant  him  to  have  it  if 
he'd  pay  my  price.  I  played  another  fellow 
against  him  this  time.  Bill  Minturn  thought 
maybe  he'd  like  that  forty,  and  after  I'd  fixed 
my  price  it  was  only  a  question  of  time  until 
one  of  'em  came  to  it.  Joe  finally  did.  He 
thought  Bill  was  just  about  to  bite — and  he 
was — and  Joe  was  afraid  to  wait  any  longer. 
I've  been  half  the  winter  working  up  this  trade. 
Haven't  had  so  much  fun  since  I  was  a  boy." 

Grandfather  laughed  until  his  big  voice 
could  have  been  heard  by  the  neighbors  half  a 
mile  away. 

"And  now,  Mother,"  he  said,  "we'll  cele- 
brate my  bargain  and  one  of  these  days  take 
that  trip  out  to  California  on  the  visit  to  Wil- 
liam that  he's  been  talking  of  so  long." 


138  GRANDMOTHER 

Grandfather  was  the  voluble  one  this  time. 
He  wanted  to  talk. 

"Come  in,  girls.  Come,  Mother,  let  me  tell 
you  about  it." 

Grandmother  darted  ahead  and  by  the  time 
the  others  had  followed  her  into  the  kitchen 
there  was  no  note  pinned  to  the  cloth  over 
Grandfather's  luncheon. 

Her  face  was  radiant  but  there  was  a  queer 
expression  on  it  when  she  whispered  to  Sally 
and  Jane  before  they  started  home:  "I  might 
have  known  he  was  up  to  some  dickering  or 
other.  He's  always  as  mum  as  an  image  when 
he's  got  a  trade  on  hand.  But  he  might  have 
given  me  a  hint.  It's  no  way  to  do  to  keep 
things  to  himself  so.  Let  me  tell  you,  girls — 
you  both  take  after  your  father  about  not  talk- 
ing— let  me  tell  you  not  to  bottle  yourselves 
up  like  him.  It  isn't  good  for  your  folks.  And, 
girls,  I'm  mighty  glad  I  got  in  in  time  to  get 
that  note.  He'll  never,  never  know  in  the 
world  that  I  was  thinking  of  acting  like  Mar- 
tha Wilson." 

As  Sally  and  Jane  jogged  home  leisurely 
that  afternoon  they  alternately  laughed  and 


GRANDMOTHER  139 

cried  over  their  mother's  surprising  perform- 
ance. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  because  she's  growing  old?" 
said  Sally.  "She's  never  seemed  old  to  me,  but 
she's  nearly  seventy.  I  don't  want  to  think  of 
her  getting  childish."  Tears  were  in  her  eyes 
as  she  spoke. 

"Mother  always  was  a  child  in  two  things, 
and  always  will  be,"  replied  Jane.  "She's  al- 
ways wanted  to  know  what  was  going  on. 
When  we  were  all  young  at  home  she  wanted 
to  know — as  the  boys  say  now,  what  was  'do- 
ing'— to  the  smallest  detail.  And  we  close- 
mouthed  silent  ones  hardly  ever  gratified  her. 
It  wasn't  our  way,  but  it  must  have  often  hurt 
her  feelings.  I've  thought  of  it  many  times 
since.  And  she  wanted  to  be  petted,  but  she 
never  got  much  petting  from  any  of  us.  Pet- 
ting wasn't  our  way  either,  but  I'm  sure  chil- 
dren never  loved  their  mother  more.  Her 
'break'  to-day  was  perfectly  natural  for  her. 
She  couldn't  help  it." 

"But  do  you  think  she'll  be  able  to  keep  her 
secret  from  Father,  Jane?" 

"Mercy,  no!  She's  told  him  by  this  time. 
And  he  ought  to  feel  a  little  sorry  for  her  and 


140  GRANDMOTHER 

ashamed  of  himself.  She  had  a  real  griev- 
ance." 

"I  suppose,"  sighed  Sally,  "that  we  close- 
mouthed  people  are  a  real  trial  to  folks  who  like 
to  hear  things  talked  over." 

"There's  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Jane, 


A  BIT  OF  HUMAN  INTEREST 

I'M  glad  I'm  not  the  one  to  spend  two  days 
in  this  town,  Emily,"  said  John  Barker, 
as  he  turned  his  automobile  into  the  main  street 
of  Bellville,  a  town  that  is  only  found  on  the 
largest  maps  of  Indiana  and  is  remote  from 
railroads.  "Even  your  passionate  hunt  for  an- 
cestors won't  save  you  from  deadly  dullness 
until  we  come  back." 

"Don't  you  worry  about  Emily,  John,"  re- 
torted his  wife,  the  second  of  the  two  young 
women  of  the  party.  "If  her  pedigree  pursuit 
isn't  enough  to  fill  her  time,  she  will  find  some 
human  interest  to  occupy  her  attention.  You 
know  Emily  can  scent  out  human  interest  in 
the  middle  of  a  forty-mile  desert." 

"Well,  why  not,  if  any  one  is  there  before 
me?  'Wherever  human  beings  are,  there  is 
human  interest,"  laughed  Emily,  as  the  car 
drew  up  before  the  two-story  house  bearing  on 
its  front  a  large  and  imposing  sign,  "Metro- 
politan Hotel,"  and  on  whose  narrow  veranda 

141 


142          HUMAN    INTEREST 

abutting  on  the  sidewalk  and  almost  level  with 
it,  was  a  scattering  row  of  shirt-sleeved  men 
with  their  heels  on  the  railing. 

One  of  the  number,  who  proved  to  be  the 
landlord,  came  down  to  greet  the  lady  who  was 
alighting,  and  assured  her  in  answer  to  inqui- 
ries, that  she  could  be  accommodated  in  his  es- 
tablishment. 

"Best  room  in  the  house  at  your  service, 
ma'am.  Bridal  chamber,  elegant  room  just  off 
the  parlor  down-stairs.  Every  other  room's 
filled.  (There  must  have  been  ten  or  twelve  in 
all) .  More  traveling  men'n  common  this  week 
and  there's  the  revival  and  all." 

Upon  this  information  Miss  Emily  Austin 
said  she  would  stay.  John  Barker  handed  her 
satchel  to  the  landlord  and  there  was  a  gay 
exchange  of  farewells  as  the  two  remaining 
occupants  of  the  car  drove  away,  and  a  parting 
injunction  from  John  not  to  forget  to  look 
for  her  human  interest  tale  so  that  she  might 
tell  it  when  they  came  back. 

As  the  guest  passed  into  the  dingy  office  of 
the  inn,  a  solemn-faced  man,  wearing  a  black 
alpaca  coat  and  thereby  setting  himself  apart 
from  the  other  men  about  as  in  some  way  more 


HUMAN    INTEREST  143 

distinguished  and  exclusive,  stepped  forward 
with  a  bow  and  presented  to  her  a  little  hand- 
bill. Later  when  she  had  adjusted  herself  to 
the  elegancies  of  the  bridal  chamber,  with  its 
white  painted  furniture  decorated  in  green  and 
yellow,  its  garish  red  carpet,  its  framed  "yard 
of  roses"  and  a  portrait  of  William  Jennings 
Bryan  hanging  on  the  wall,  and  had  removed 
the  dust  of  automobile  travel,  Miss  Austin 
picked  up  the  handbill.  It  read: 

THE  KENTUCKY  GIRL  PREACHER 

A  MISS  OF  14  SUMMERS 

AT   GRANGE   HALL 

During  the  Week  at  8  p.  m. 

Sunday  Meeting  at  4  p.  m.  for  Men  Only 

(PLENTY  OF  FANS  AND  ICE-WATER) 

"Here  must  be  the  human  interest  I  am  to 
find,"  thought  the  reader,  smiling  to  herself. 

But  she  had  come  to  Bellville  in  search  of 
genealogical  lore  and  soon  forgot  about  the 
girl  preacher  in  the  interest  of  finding  old  Mr. 
Amos  Campbell,  whose  mother  had  been  her 
own  great-great-grandmother's  sister  and  who 
was  supposed  to  have  a  family  Bible  and  per- 
haps documents  that  might  enable  her  to  find 
the  date  and  place  of  birth  and  something  of 
the  history  of  Samuel  Mount  joy,  her  great- 


144          HUMAN   INTEREST 

great-grandmother's  son  by  her  first  husband 
and  her  own  ancestor,  so  that  she  might  ascer- 
tain whether  or  not  he  was  the  same  Samuel 
Mount  joy  who  had  been  a  captain  in  a  New 
Jersey  regiment  in  the  Revolutionary  War 
and  on  the  strength  of  whose  record  she  might 
become  a  member  of  the  Daughters  of  the 
Revolution. 

How  she  spent  a  good  part  of  her  first  day's 
stay  in  persuading  old  Mr.  Campbell  that  she 
had  no  ulterior  and  sinister  motive  in  her 
search,  such  as  an  intention  of  getting  sole  pos- 
session of  an  estate  that  might  lie  in  the  back- 
ground and  in  which  he  ought  to  share ;  how, 
on  the  second  day,  after  examination  of  ancient 
Bibles  and  musty  papers,  she  ascertained  that 
neither  old  Mr.  Campbell  nor  his  documents 
could  throw  light  on  the  Mount  joys— of  these 
things  she  could  have  related  an  interesting 
tale;  but  the  account  does  not  belong  to  this 
story. 

Miss  Austin  thought  no  more  of  the  girl 
preacher  until  evening  came  when,  sitting  at 
the  parlor  front  window,  she  saw  people  flock- 
ing into  Grange  Hall  opposite.  Then  she  de- 
cided to  see  for  herself  what  a  child  evangelist 


HUMAN    INTEREST  145 

was  like.  An  inquiry  of  the  landlady,  a  volu- 
ble person,  brought  the  information  that  the 
preaching  had  been  going  on  for  two  weeks 
with  wonderful  results. 

"I  never  took  no  stock  myself  in  women 
preaching,"  the  landlady  declared.  "Not  but 
that  a  woman  might  get  as  near  to  the  throne 
of  grace  as  a  man,  and  maybe  nearer,  if  that 
was  all,  and  I  ain't  saying  she  mightn't  have 
just  as  much  influence  with  the  Lord  in  bring- 
ing down  a  blessing,  or  a  shower  of  'em,  as  the 
revivalists  talk  of;  but  for  all  that  I  cain't 
never  get  used  to  petticoats  in  the  pulpit. 
Seems  kind  o'  scandalous;  pants  seem  more 
suitable.  We  had  a  returned  Baptist  female 
missionary  here  last  winter  who  preached  to  us 
twice  in  the  church — regular  sermons.  Real 
interesting  they  were.  She  told  us  about  Hin- 
dus and  how  great  our  duty  was  to  carry  the 
gospel  to  the  heathen  and  I  almost  felt  as  if  I 
ought  to  be  a  missionary  myself  and  help  save 
the  poor  things.  But  all  the  time  I  kept  think- 
ing how  much  more  appropriate  she'd  seem,  say 
here  in  the  hotel  parlor  or  over  in  Grange  Hall, 
which  ain't  so  sanctified  as  the  church.  She 
didn't  make  the  prayers  though,  nor  offer  the 


146  HUMAN    INTEREST 

benediction.  The  regular  ordained  minister 
did  both  and  that  took  the  edge  off  some. 

"About  this  girl  revivalist,  I'm  free  to  say 
I  cain't  quite  reconcile  myself  to  her.  She 
seems  nice  enough,  though  not  'specially 
fetching  as  a  girl,  and  she  is  gathering  in  the 
souls.  In  the  two  weeks  she's  been  here  there 
have  been  twenty-five  convictions  of  sin  and 
nineteen  conversions.  Six  of  'em  hav'n't  seemed 
to  come  through. 

"It  don't  seem  quite  the  thing  to  have  a  re- 
vival in  the  summer  so.  We  usually  have  'em 
in  the  winter  you  know,  but  I  reckon  it's  just 
as  well.  It's  sort  o'  between  crops  just  now 
with  the  farmers  and  they  find  time  to  drive  in. 
The  young  folks  are  attracted  because  they  are 
young,  I  s'pose,  and  because  the  meetings  are 
a  place  to  go.  (It  was  before  the  day  of  mov- 
ing pictures. )  It  ain't  for  me  to  say  but  that 
it's  all  right  when  the  mourners'  bench  is  so 
full,  but  I  cain't  get  used  to  its  being  out  o' 
season,  and  out  o'  the  usual  order." 

Some  one  at  this  point  called  the  landlady, 
who  was  also  the  cook,  housekeeper  and  general 
factotum,  and  Miss  Austin  went  across  to  the 


HUMAN   INTEREST          147 

hall.  The  room  was  full  by  this  time  and  she 
slipped  into  a  seat  near  the  door. 

On  the  platform  were  two  men  and  a  girl. 
One  of  the  men  was  a  local  minister  who  "led 
in  prayer"  and  gave  out  the  hymns,  the  other 
the  solemn- faced  person  of  sanctimonious 
manner  who  had  put  the  circular  in  Miss  Aus- 
tin's hand  and  who  proved  to  be  the  girl's  fa- 
ther. He  sat  beside  his  daughter,  holding  her 
hand  and  seldom  taking  his  watchful  eyes 
from  her,  though  the  observer  could  not  clas- 
sify his  expression  as  one  of  pride.  It  was 
rather  the  look  of  one  who  is  conducting  a  per- 
formance and  is  concerned  that  it  shall  be  done 
well.  Her  mother,  the  visitor  afterward 
learned,  invariably  occupied  a  front  seat  at 
the  meetings  and  stared  fixedly  at  the  girl — 
a  sort  of  hypnotic  gaze. 

When  the  preliminary  service,  including 
the  taking  up  of  a  collection,  was  over  and  the 
officiating  minister  finally  said,  "Our  gifted 
and  inspired  young  sister  will  now  address  us," 
the  girl  came  forward.  She  was  decidedly  a 
commonplace  young  person  in  appearance — 
rather  stoutly  built  and  with  a  dull  heavy  ex- 
pression. Her  drab  hair  hung  loosely  on  her 


148          HUMAN   INTEREST 

shoulders,  a  few  frizzes  overhanging  Her  fore- 
head. Though  she  was  not  taller  than  a  well- 
grown  girl  of  fourteen  and  the  skirt  of  her 
cheap  white  cotton  frock  stopped  at  her  shoe- 
tops,  she  did  not  give  an  impression  of  child- 
hood. 

With  her  pale  blue  eyes  fixed  in  an  unseeing 
stare  at  some  point  above  the  heads  of  her  au- 
dience, she  began  her  talk  in  a  high-pitched 
voice,  at  first  hesitatingly  and  slowly,  then 
more  rapidly  in  a  monotonous  singsong  that, 
as  she  worked  herself  more  and  more  into  the 
revival  spirit,  or  what  was  rather,  perhaps,  a 
semi-hysterical  state,  was  punctuated  at  fre- 
quent intervals  with  a  wail  or  prolonged  groan 
so  dismal  and  uncanny  that  it  must  have  had 
much  to  do  with  making  sinners  in  the  audience 
shiver  over  their  iniquity.  The  voice  with  its 
weird  intonations  perhaps  had  more  effect  than 
the  speaker's  words  in  arousing  responsive  emo- 
tions, but  the  words  were  not  lacking  in  the 
power  to  stir  the  fears  of  those  not  sure  of 
their  heavenly  anchorage. 

Her  discourse,  if  it  could  be  called  such,  con- 
sisted of  disjointed  exhortations  to  the  sinners 
before  her  to  accept  salvation  before  it  was 


HUMAN    INTEREST  149 

everlastingly  too  late,  of  threats  of  a  fiery  fu- 
ture if  they  refused  to  be  saved  at  what  might 
be  their  last  opportunity,  of  lurid  pictures  of 
lost  ones  lifting  up  hopeless  hands  to  heaven 
after  they  had  gone  to  another  place.  If  they 
would  come  to  God's  altar  now  those  to  whom 
she  talked  might  cast  all  their  sins  behind  them 
and  be  washed  white  as  snow. 

"Come,"  she  wailed,  "come,  brothers,  come, 
sisters,  come!  Come  now!  Put  the  devil  be- 
hind you.  Come  and  be  saved !  Little  children, 
come!  You  must  belong  to  God  or  the  devil, 
one.  There  cain't  be  no  half-way.  Come, 
come,  come  and  repent!" 

Emotional  ones  in  the  audience  were  moved. 
Shouts  of  "Amen!"  "Bless  the  Lord,"  "Lord 
save  us,"  interrupted  her.  Here  and  there 
arose  groans  as  of  acute  agony.  The  hysterical 
spirit  was  contagious,  and  as  the  exhorter  made 
her  appeals  for  sinners  to  come  to  the  mourn- 
ers' bench,  several  persons  arose  and  went 
shambling  up  the  aisle  to  the  railing  about  the 
platform  where  they  sank  upon  their  knees. 
With  a  warning  that  they  might  be  sinning 
away  their  last  chance  of  salvation  by  delay, 
the  girl  preacher,  the  high  color  of  excitement 


150  HUMAN    INTEREST 

in  her  cheeks  now,  but  her  eyes  still  staring 
into  space,  lifted  her  arms  high,  rose  on  her  tip- 
toes and  in  a  piercing  voice  that  had  yet  the 
same  weirdly  monotonous  cadence,  cried: 
"Come,  Lord,  come  down,  dear  Lord,  and  save 
these  sinners  from  the  fiery  pit.  I  see  the  pit. 
I  see  it.  The  devil  reaches  for  them.  Save 
them  right  now  1" 

Then  she  dropped  her  hands,  there  was  an 
effect  of  sudden  wilting,  and  as  her  father 
stepped  forward  to  support  her  she  sank  into 
a  chair  with  a  manner  of  utter  exhaustion, 
while,  echoing  her  plea,  the  audience  sang: 
Save  Us  Just  Now. 

When  this  happened  a  young  man  who  had 
slipped  into  the  end  of  the  seat  next  to  Miss 
Austin  toward  the  end  of  the  girl's  exhortation, 
rose  and  went  forward  as  a  mourner.  His  head 
was  bowed  and  his  hand  half  shielded  his  face. 
Miss  Austin  was  surprised  because  she  had  dis- 
tinctly heard  this  youth,  as  he  sat  beside  her, 
say  something  under  his  breath  about  a 
damned  rascal,  and  she  gathered  the  impression 
from  this  and  the  curl  of  his  lip  that  he  re- 
garded the  proceedings  with  distaste.  The 
change  from  critic  to  penitent  seemed  unac- 


HUMAN    INTEREST  151 

countably  sudden,  and  stirred  by  an  impulse 
of  curiosity,  Miss  Austin  moved  forward  to  a 
seat  made  vacant  by  a  woman  near  the  front 
and  watched  him. 

As  he  sank  on  his  knees  directly  in  front  of 
the  girl  preacher,  now  seated  in  a  chair,  Miss 
Austin  fancied  that  she  saw  in  her  face  a  sud- 
den change  of  expression,  a  gleam  of  light  and 
life  before  that  lacking  in  her  eyes,  and  a  start 
of  surprise.  The  air  was  electric  with  the  con- 
tagious excitement  of  the  revival.  Hymn 
singing  mingled  with  prayers  and  emotional 
cries,  and  pious  brethren  and  sisters  already 
safe  in  the  fold,  moved  about,  stooping  down 
to  exhort  and  encourage  the  penitents.  Then 
the  girl  preacher  stepped  to  the  end  of  the  line 
of  mourners,  bent  down  and  whispered  some- 
thing, presumably  a  word  of  hope,  to  the  kneel- 
ing young  woman  there.  She  spoke  to  others 
in  the  same  way  until  she  reached  the  young 
man  who  was  the  latest  comer.  She  might  have 
been  dull,  but  she  had  the  feminine  guile  not 
to  betray  herself  by  going  to  him  first.  By 
him  she  knelt  and  their  whispers  were  pro- 
longed, the  observer  thought.  Suddenly,  al- 
most at  the  same  moment,  the  girl's  father 


152  HUMAN    INTEREST 

touched  his  daughter's  arm  and  sought  to  draw 
her  away,  and  a  stern-visaged  woman,  who 
proved  to  be  her  mother,  stepped  forward  and 
spoke  to  her.  The  "mourner"  raised  his  head 
and  those  near  hy  heard  words  that  were  not 
those  of  prayer.  "He  said  'damn'!"  exclaimed 
one.  "Oh,  worse  than  that,"  whispered  an- 
other. 

Something  had  happened ;  no  one  knew  ex- 
actly what.  There  was  a  little  flurry  made  by 
the  departure  through  the  door  at  the  side  of 
the  platform  of  the  girl  preacher,  her  mother 
and  father,  and  the  unceremonious  march  down 
the  aisle  of  the  young  man,  with  his  soul,  judg- 
ing from  his  black  looks,  still  unsaved.  Miss 
Austin,  weary  of  the  meeting,  also  slipped 
down  the  aisle  and  across  to  the  hotel. 

A  little  while  later,  lying  on  her  bed  and 
thinking  over  the  events  of  the  day,  she  became 
aware  of  violent  weeping  overhead.  It  seemed 
very  near  and  she  discovered  that  the  ceil- 
ing above  her  head  was  broken  by  an  old- 
fashioned  stovepipe  hole,  used  in  winter  pre- 
sumably for  the  economical  purpose  of  heating 
two  rooms  with  one  fire.  Then  voices  were 
heard  both  in  complaint  and  reproof.  She  did 


HUMAN    INTEREST  153 

not  wish  to  be  a  listener  unawares  to  other  peo- 
ple's troubles,  but  though  she  arose,  moved 
about,  rattled  the  furniture,  coughed  and  made 
her  near  presence  audible,  the  sobs  and  the  con- 
versation continued. 

"Maw,  I  never  knowed  Jim  was  to  be  there, 
I  never  knowed  it,  and  when  I  seen  him  I 
thought  maybe  he  was  under  conviction  for 


sure." 


It  was  the  voice  of  the  girl  preacher  and  it 
appeared  that  her  domestic  vernacular  fell 
something  short  of  her  platform  speech. 

"Anyway,  maw,  I  wanted  to  speak  to  him," 
she  went  on.  "And,  maw,  I  don't  want  to  go  to 
that  Sunday  meeting  for  men  only.  I  wish't 
you  and  paw  hadn't  thought  of  that.  It  makes 
me  feel  awful." 

"Hush  up,  Nancy  Jane,  and  go  to  bed. 
Your  paw  and  me  knows  what's  best  for  you. 
He's  written  your  speech  for  you  and  there's 
nothing  in  it  but  good  advice  about  being  hon- 
est and  decent  and  good  to  their  families,  and 
about  going  to  church  and  keeping  out  of  sa- 
loons and  places  they  wouldn't  want  to  have 
respectable  people  know  about.  There's  noth- 
ing you  need  be  ashamed  to  say.  Your  paw 


154  HUMAN    INTEREST 

knows  the  right  thing.  The  meeting'll  pay, 
too.  Men  always  give  more  when  the  plate's 
passed  than  women  do,  and  we  may  as  well 
have  the  money.  And  mind  this,  Nancy  Jane, 
there's  to  be  no  fooling  with  that  Jim  Adams. 
No  more  of  that.  I  won't  have  it." 

The  voices  ceased,  but,  long  after,  the  sound 
of  spasmodic  sobs  continued  to  reach  the  room 
below. 

Next  day  time  hung  rather  heavy  on  Miss 
Austin's  hands.  Her  genealogical  researches 
having  come  to  an  end  and  the  weather  being 
too  warm  for  explorations  about  the  village, 
she  wandered  over  the  little  hotel,  hoping  for 
the  early  return  of  her  friends.  She  had 
glimpses  of  the  girl  preacher  once  or  twice, 
but  her  parents  were  watchful  guardians  and 
never  left  her  alone  when  she  was  out  of  her 
room.  Seen  near  by  and  without  the  softening 
effect  of  the  none  too  brilliant  artificial  light, 
she  was  even  less  attractive  than  when  on  the 
platform,  her  face  showing  heavy  and  sullen 
and  her  manner  awkward.  Obviously,  too,  she 
was  not  a  child.  Her  eyes  that  were  so  fixed 
and  staring  when  she  preached,  were  to-day, 
however,  normal  enough.  Her  parents  could 


HUMAN    INTEREST  155 

not  control  them  and  her  glances  went  quickly 
and  inquiringly  about.  The  beguiling  Jim, 
for  whom  they  were  presumably  in  search,  was 
not  seen  by  Miss  Austin  until  afternoon,  when 
he  suddenly  approached  and  seated  himself 
near  her  at  the  end  of  the  long  porch  to  which 
she  had  restlessly  wandered.  He  was  a  coun- 
try boy,  but  not  troubled  with  bashfulness,  and 
with  entire  indifference  to  ceremony  and  evi- 
dently longing  for  some  one  to  talk  to,  he 
promptly  addressed  her. 

"I  seen  you  at  the  meeting  last  night,  lady. 
What  do  you  think  of  the  durned  business?" 

"Why  do  you  speak  of  it  in  that  way?" 
smiled  Miss  Austin.  "You  went  to  the  mourn- 
ers' bench  as  if  you  believed  it  was  all  right." 

"Me  believe  in  it?  Well,  I  reckon  not!  I 
went  up  there  so's  I  could  speak  to  Nancy 
Jane,  the  girl.  She's  my  girl,  that  preacher  as 
they  call  her,  and  them  two  old  buzzards  that 
are  driving  her  into  making  a  holy  show  of  her- 
self, they  won't  let  me  see  her  anywhere  else. 
They  never  let  her  out  of  the  house  alone  and 
when  she's  outside  of  her  room  they  stick  to  her 
like  burrs.  Oh,  I've  watched  'em.  They're 
afraid  I'll  coax  her  away  with  me  and  that 


156  HUMAN    INTEREST 

would  shut  off  their  revenue.  I  will  run  away 
with  her,  too.  If  I  could  have  half  a  chance 
to  talk  to  her  I'd  soon  persuade  her  to  it.  But 
I'll  get  to  her  yet  if  I  have  to  follow  them  all 
over  Indiana.  She's  mine ;  I've  known  her  all 
her  life,  and  I've  wanted  to  marry  her  ever 
since  she  was  a  kidlet." 

"But  she's  only  fourteen,"  objected  Miss 
Austin. 

"Fourteen — nothing!  She  was  eighteen  last 
March.  I'm  twenty-two,  and  I've  got  a  farm 
and  a  place  to  take  her  to — an'  I'll  take  her 
sure.  She's  willing  enough  but  she's  afraid  of 
that  old  dad  of  hers.  They're  both  hard  on  her 
and  the  old  lady  looks  like  the  one  to  dodge 
from,  but  it's  the  old  man  that  trained  her,  and 
that's  after  the  dollars.  He  used  to  be  a  kind 
of  an  exhorter  himself,  and  one  winter  when 
Nancy  Jane  got  converted  at  a  revival — she 
really  was  a  little  girl  then — she  got  excited 
and  a  little  off  her  base  like  they  will,  and  got 
up  in  meeting  and  gave  a  little  song  and  dance 
—oh,  you  know  what  I  mean.  She  waved  her 
arms  and  shouted  and  told  everybody  they 
ought  to  be  good  and  love  the  Lord  like  she  did. 
That  gave  the  old  rascal,  her  father,  an  idea, 


HUMAN    INTEREST  157 

and  the  first  thing  anybody  knew  he  had  Nancy 
trained  to  get  up  and  preach  like  she  done  last 
night.  And  now  he's  got  up  the  Sunday  after- 
noon talk  to  men  only.  Damn  him!" 

The  set  of  the  boy's  square  jaw  and  the  glint 
of  his  steel  blue  eyes  looked  as  if  he  might  be 
an  unpleasant  person  for  the  man  so  violently 
condemned  to  encounter. 

"But  if  they  won't  let  you  to  speak  to  her, 
why  do  you  follow  her  around?"  Miss  Austin 
asked. 

"Because  some  day  I  will  see  her  and  get  her 
away  from  them,  and  it  won't  be  long,  either. 
They  cain't  always  be  on  the  job  of  watching 
her." 

The  girl  preacher  did  not  make  her  appear- 
ance in  the  dining-room  that  day.  Her  mother 
said  she  was  meditating  over  the  coming 
night's  sermon,  and  at  noon  carried  her  dinner 
to  her.  It  was  a  warm  somnolent  day  and  Miss 
Austin,  having  nothing  to  do  but  await  the  ar- 
rival of  her  friends  with  their  car,  alternately 
dozed  and  read  a  dull  novel,  sitting  at  the  win- 
dow of  her  room  that  looked  out  upon  a  narrow 
green  yard,  on  the  other  side  of  which  was  the 


158  HUMAN   INTEREST 

solid  brick  wall  of  a  church.  Almost  filling  the 
end  that  was  toward  the  street  was  a  big  clump 
of  syringa  bushes  long  past  bloom,  but  luxuri- 
ant of  foliage,  their  branches  drooping  to  the 
ground.  It  was  a  secluded  spot  and  as  she 
breathed  the  sweet  summer  air  Miss  Austin 
thought  sleepily  that  she  preferred  her  present 
restful  experience  to  racing  over  the  country 
in  a  touring  car. 

Then  she  was  aroused  by  a  movement  outside 
and  a  soft  whispering.  A  glance  through  the 
old-fashioned  shutters  set  partly  open,  showed 
the  girl  preacher  and  her  Kentucky  lover,  hid- 
den from  the  street  by  the  syringas,  he  with  his 
arm  around  her,  she  with  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"You've  got  to  come  away  from  here  before 
Sunday,  Nancy  Jane,"  he  was  saying,  his  voice 
unconsciously  rising.  "I've  waited  long 
enough  and  your  paw  cain't  head  me  off  this 
time.  When  I  say  before  Sunday  I  mean  it. 
For  you  to  preach  at  all  is  bad  enough,  but 
talks  to  men  by  you  ain't  ever  going  to  begin." 

"Oh,  Jim,  if  I  only  could !  But  I  cain't  get 
away.  I'm  scared  every  minute  now  for  fear 
maw'll  miss  me.  She  was  asleep  when  I  got 


HUMAN    INTEREST  159 

the  key  and  slipped  down-stairs.    Paw's  out  on 
the  front  porch." 

Their  low  talk  went  on,  but  Miss  Austin  did 
not  wish  to  listen  to  their  confidences  and 
moved  away  from  the  window.  At  that  mo- 
ment a  sharp  voice  called  Nancy  Jane  and 
quick  steps  came  down  the  stairs.  Moved  by 
a  sudden  impulse  of  sympathy — a  touch  of  the 
universal  love  for  lovers — Miss  Austin  pushed 
open  her  window  blinds  and  said  to  the  girl, 
startled  and  not  knowing  which  way  to  turn  to 
escape  discovery: 

"You  must  excuse  me,  but  I've  heard  what 
you've  been  saying.  Stay  here  and  talk  to  me. 
And  you,  young  man,  disappear  through  that 
back  gate,  quick,  if  you  don't  want  to  get 
caught." 

"Go,  go!"  cried  the  girl. 

"If  I  do,  I'll  be  back  again,  Nancy  Jane. 
You'll  hear  from  me  again  to-night,  but  it 
won't  be  at  the  meeting." 

With  this,  Jim  vanished,  not  being  as  ready, 
perhaps,  to  confront  his  future  mother-in-law 
as  his  bold  talk  indicated.  By  the  time  the 
girl's  mother  bethought  herself  of  the  hidden 
corner  of  the  yard,  Nancy  Jane  was  talking 


160  HUMAN    INTEREST 

with  Miss  Austin,  who  leaned  from  her  win- 
dow, about  the  heat  of  the  summer  day  and  of 
the  desirability  of  a  cooling  rain. 

She  was  not  so  dull  as  she  had  looked,  love 
doing  its  part  to  brighten  her  wits  and  also  to 
work  a  transformation  in  her  appearance.  For 
a  new  light  was  in  her  eyes,  and  a  new  courage 
in  her  heart  had  brought  color  to  her  cheeks 
and  banished  the  sullen  expression  from  her 
face.  When  her  mother  appeared  and  looked 
suspiciously  around,  Nancy  Jane  betrayed  no 
fear  and  no  guilt,  and  went  with  her  mother 
quietly. 

When  evening  came  she  crossed  with  her 
parents  as  usual  to  the  meeting.  A  little  group 
had  gathered  at  the  entrance  and  from  her  sta- 
tion on  the  porch  opposite  Miss  Austin  fancied 
that  as  admission  was  momentarily  delayed,  she 
saw  the  girl,  following  in  the  rear  of  her  elders, 
reach  out  her  hand  to  a  shadowy  form  that 
quickly  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  She  might 
have  received  a  note  thought  the  watcher, 
whose  own  days  of  romance  were  not  yet 
past.  It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  the 
preacher  and  her  guardians  came  back  to  the 
hotel  and  soon  Miss  Austin  heard  footsteps  in 


HUMAN    INTEREST  161 

the  room  above  her,  followed  presently  by  the 
sound  of  the  click  of  a  lock.  A  little  later,  still 
sitting  drowsily  at  her  window  and  thinking 
regretfully  of  the  failure  of  her  friends  to  ar- 
rive on  their  return  journey,  there  was  a  sound 
of  running  outside,  her  door  was  flung  uncere- 
moniously open  and  the  girl  preacher  darted 
in. 

"Oh,  hide  me,  hide  me.  I  got  out  of  my 
room — I  found  another  key — but  maw  heard 
me  and  as  soon  as  she  and  paw  can  get  dressed, 
they'll  be  after  me.  Jim  was  to  meet  me  by  the 
syringa  bushes,  but  it's  too  early  yet.  I  don't 
want  to  go  back.  Oh,  hide  me !" 

Before  Miss  Austin  could  get  her  wits  to- 
gether the  girl  had  run  to  the  open  window, 
crawled  out  and  crouched  down  in  the  black 
shadow  outside,  pushing  the  shutters  together 
softly  behind  her.  She  had  donned  a  dark 
dress  and  a  hat  and  it  would  have  been  a  sharp 
eye  that  could  detect  her.  It  was  not  a  mo- 
ment too  soon.  As  unceremoniously  as  her 
daughter  had  come  the  mother  pushed  her 
way  in. 

"Is  Nancy  Jane  here?  I  thought  I  heard 
her  come  this  way." 


162  HUMAN    INTEREST, 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  opened 
a  wardrobe  and  looked  in  and  then  peered  un- 
der the  bed,  the  only  hiding-places  in  the  room. 
By  this  time  Miss  Austin  had  recovered  her 
presence  of  mind. 

"Madam,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  private  room." 

Without  apology  the  mother  rushed  out  and 
as  quickly  the  door  was  locked  behind  her  and 
the  light  of  the  dim  oil  lamp  turned  out.  Then 
Miss  Austin,  full  of  sympathy  for  the  lovers, 
softly  opened  the  window  and  told  the  girl  to 
come  in. 

She  heard  a  commotion  outside  as  of  people 
hurrying  about ;  doors  were  slammed  and  there 
were  excited  voices.  Along  the  sidewalk  quick 
steps  were  heard.  Evidently  the  girl's  parents 
had  aroused  the  landlord  and  others  for  the 
purpose  of  helping  in  their  search.  Meanwhile 
the  girl,  breathless  in  her  excitement,  walked 
up  and  down. 

"I  was  to  meet  Jim  at  half  past  ten  o'clock," 
she  cried.  "He  was  to  have  a  horse  and  buggy 
from  the  livery  stable  around  the  corner  and 
we  were  to  drive  over  to  the  junction  and  catch 
a  train  to  Louieville  and  send  the  rig  back. 
His  home's  only  twenty  miles  from  there  and 


HUMAN    INTEREST  163 

we'd  be  there  by  morning  and  be  married  be- 
fore they'd  find  where  we'd  gone.  But  they'll 
go  right  to  the  stable  and  head  him  off.  Oh, 
what'll  we  do?" 

To  prove  that  she  was  right,  at  this  moment 
came  a  soft  tap  on  the  window  behind  the 
syringas  and  Jim's  head  appeared  in  the  dark- 
ness. 

"Is  Nancy  Jane  here?  [By  George,  I'm 
glad  I  guessed  right.  They've  got  my  horse 
and  I'll  have  trouble  in  getting  another,  but 
I'll  find  one  before  morning.  You're  going 
with  me  this  time  sure." 

"Jim,  I'd  rather  walk  to  the  junction  than 
stay  now.  It's  only  six  miles,  anyway.  We 
could  do  it  easy." 

There  was  no  shy  hanging  back  on  Nancy 
Jane's  part.  Having  been  won,  she  needed  no 
more  wooing. 

Jim  visibly  brightened,  as  his  voice  showed. 
"Would  you,  Nancy  Jane?  We  could  do  it,  at 
the  worst.  But  we  cain't  start  now  while  they're 
hunting  you.  May  she  wait  here  till  the  coast's 
clear?"  he  asked  of  Miss  Austin. 

Before  she  could  answer,  the  honk  of  an  au- 
tomobile horn  was  heard  out  in  front  and  Miss 


164  HUMAN    INTEREST 

Austin  knew  her  friends  had  arrived.  This 
complicated  matters,  for  she  was  sure  they 
would  wish  to  go  to  Indianapolis  and  that 
would  mean  that  she  could  no  longer  shield 
the  lovers. 

She  ran  out  to  the  street  and  was  greeted 
cheerfully  by  the  couple  in  the  car  and  bidden 
to  get  her  traps  and  come  on. 

"I've  got  to  be  in  Indianapolis  early  to-mor- 
row and  I'd  rather  make  the  run  to-night," 
said  John. 

Miss  Austin  hesitated  a  moment  and  then 
whispered  to  them  a  brief  outline  of  the  situa- 
tion and  the  lovers'  predicament. 

"Why,  that's  easy,"  shouted  John,  then 
quickly  lowered  his  voice.  "We'll  take  them 
in  with  us.  We  go  right  by  the  junction.  It 
will  crowd  us  a  little,  maybe,  but  it  isn't  far. 
Maybe,  though,  we'd  better  take  'em  to  the 
next  station  beyond,  because  somebody  is  sure 
to  drive  to  the  junction  before  train-time  to 
stop  'em.  There  isn't  another  machine  in  the 
county  and  nobody'll  follow  them  farther  than 
the  junction." 

And  that  was  the  solution.  Miss  Austin 
hurriedly  consulted  with  the  lovers,  directed 


HUMAN    INTEREST  165 

them  to  go  through  the  back  gate  and  wait  in 
the  shadow  of  the  church;  then  she,  passing 
through  the  office  and  settling  her  account, 
joined  her  friends  at  the  car. 

As  she  crossed  the  porch,  the  girl's  mother, 
back  from  her  fruitless  search,  came  up  and 
dropped  wearily  into  a  chair. 

"My  girl  is  gone,"  she  said,  addressing  no 
one  in  particular,  and  wept,  her  stern  features 
softened  with  grief. 

Everything  was  over  so  quickly  that  Miss 
Austin,  really  the  chief  aid  and  promoter  in 
the  elopement,  had  hardly  time  to  think  con- 
nectedly until  they  were  all  well  on  their  way 
to  the  next  town. 

John  Barker,  with  no  sense  of  responsibility 
on  his  soul,  took  the  adventure  gaily  and 
chaffed  the  lovers  as  the  car  flew  along  until, 
when  the  station  was  reached,  the  pair  were  in 
high  spirits.  There  the  two  were  left  after 
being  showered  with  good  advice  and  good 
wishes,  and  the  car  sped  on. 

But  Miss  Austin  wondered  a  little  and  her 
heart  misgave  her  as  she  remembered  that 
mother's  face.  "It  was  her  daughter,  not  the 
girl  preacher  for  whom  her  tears  were  shed," 


166  HUMAN    INTEREST 

she  reflected.  "What  right  had  I  to  interfere  ? 
How  do  I  know  that  that  girl  was  not  better 
placed  as  a  saver  of  souls  than  as  the  wife  of 
the  country  boy?" 

It  was  a  little  late  for  such  thoughts,  and 
when  a  few  days  after  came  a  little  Kentucky 
paper  containing  an  account  of  the  marriage 
of  James  Adams  and  Nancy  Jane  Shelby  and 
of  the  big  volunteer  party  of  congratulation 
given  by  the  neighbors,  her  slightly  burdened 
conscience  was  relieved.  Anyway,  as  John 
Barker  declared,  it  was  a  human  interest  story 
whose  like  she  couldn't  expect  to  run  across 
every  day. 


WHAT  COULD  HE  DO? 

WILLIAM  HARPER  MILLER  sat 
on  the  veranda  of  the  Franconia  House 
in  the  little  town  of  Silverton,  New  Hamp- 
shire, reading  a  Boston  paper  of  the  day  be- 
fore. He  was  trying  to  kill  time  until  the  af- 
ternoon train  arrived  to  take  him  out  of  what 
he  unkindly  called  a  God-forsaken  hole,  but 
which  was  really  a  quiet  agreeable  place  of 
abode  for  people  in  whom  the  spirit  of  rest- 
lessness had  never  developed,  or  had  been 
stilled  by  the  passing  of  monotonous  years. 
[He  had  come  down  in  a  stage  from  the  sum- 
mer home  of  the  head  of  the  western  business 
house  to  which  he  was  attached,  and  owing  to 
a  delay  caused  by  a  broken  axle,  had  missed 
the  morning  train. 

The  Boston  paper  was  dull,  but  he  read  it 
through,  even  to  the  advertisements,  wonder- 
ing, as  he  was  about  to  throw  it  down,  what  he 
should  do  to  pass  away  the  rest  of  the  long 
hours.  Then  he  glanced  idly  through  the  tan- 

167 


168      WHAT    COULD    HE    DO? 

gle  of  honeysuckle  and  clematis  that  em- 
bowered the  porch  of  the  old-fashioned  inn — 
and  the  course  of  his  peaceful  commonplace 
existence  was  changed. 

Along  the  street  a  woman  was  passing,  a 
slight,  black-robed,  brown-haired  woman. 

"How  much  she  looks  like  Elizabeth,"  he 
thought,  startled. 

She  spoke  at  the  moment  to  the  young  girl 
who  accompanied  her,  and  her  voice  thrilled 
him,  filled  him  with  a  strange  terror.  The  girl, 
with  the  frank  curiosity  of  youth,  looked  up 
toward  the  figure  of  the  stranger  behind  the 
vines,  but  the  woman  did  not  lift  her  eyes.  Yet 
he  saw  her  plainly  for  a  moment  as  she  turned 
with  a  graceful  gesture  to  adjust  a  stray  lock 
of  her  companion's  hair. 

"It — it  is  Elizabeth's  voice.  It  is — she  looks 
enough  like  Elizabeth  to  be  her  sister." 

His  impulse  was  to  call  to  her,  to  run  after 
her,  to  demand  her  name.  He  started  up  with 
this  intent,  then  sank  down,  feeling  suddenly 
weak  and  foolish. 

But  he  must  know  about  this  woman ;  the  re- 
semblance was  most  remarkable.  No  doubt 
she  would  pass  the  hotel  again  on  her  way 


WHAT    COULD    HE    DO?      169 

home — all  the  better  residences  were  in  the  dis- 
trict from  which  she  came — and  he  would  ask 
about  her. 

She  came  in  sight  very  soon  on  her  return, 
just  as  the  landlord,  a  garrulous  old  man,  had 
seated  himself  for  his  morning  smoke.  Miller, 
his  paper  raised  as  if  to  shield  his  eyes  from 
the  sunlight  sifting  through  the  vines,  re- 
marked in  what  he  tried  to  make  a  casual  man- 
ner, indicating  the  passers  with  a  motion  of  his 
hand: 

"Summer  boarders,  I  suppose.  I  hear  the 
town  has  a  good  many." 

"That  lady,  sir,  has  lived  here  for  the  last  six 
or  seven  years,"  replied  the  landlord  promptly. 
"She's  a  widow,  name  of  Miller.  Was  a  pas- 
senger on  the  Jane  Allen  that  was  wrecked  off 
North  Point  in  the  big  equinoctial  seven  years 
ago.  Was  bruised  and  battered  and  in  the 
water  so  long,  hanging  on  to  a  board  or  some- 
thing, that  she  was  nearly  dead  and  was  sick 
a  long  time.  When  she  got  well  she  found  her 
husband  had  died  of  typhoid  fever  in  a  hos- 
pital in  Chicago  or  some'rs  out  West.  He 
didn't  have  any  property — they  were  just  be- 
ginning— so  she  drifted  in  here  and  has  been 


170      WHAT   COULD   HE   DO? 

teaching  ever  since.  Nice  little  lady  and  every- 
body likes  her.  Sort  o'  sad-looking,  but  I 
guess  that's  owing  to  the  trouble  she's  had,  and 
being  alone,  too.  Widows  are  like  that  some- 
times." 

Miller  had  another  look  at  her  as  she  went 
by.  She  was  sad.  Or  perhaps  not  just  that. 
Weariness  and  wistf ulness  would  best  describe 
her  look.  It  was  not  the  gay  animated  face  he 
had  known — but  it  was  the  same  face.  There 
was  no  doubt  about  that  now.  And  she  had 
been  his  wife  in  those  years  when  he  had  known 
her.  Had  beenl 

"God!  She  is  my  wife  now,"  he  thought, 
and  sat  trembling,  thinking  of  another  woman 
back  in  Chicago,  the  mother  of  his  children 
who  believed  herself  to  be  his  wife. 

It  was — how  long  was  it?  Yes,  seven  years 
since  he  had  seen  this  woman  last.  Then  she 
had  left  him, — their  first  separation  in  their 
year  of  married  life — to  go  to  her  grand- 
mother up  in  Maine,  her  only  living  relative, 
who  was  ill  and  had  sent  for  her.  She  had 
written  him  a  few  weeks  later  that  her  grand- 
mother had  died,  and  that  she  would  go  to  Bos- 
ton by  the  Jane  Allen  the  next  day.  The  trip 


WHAT    COULD   HE   DO?      171 

by  water  cost  less  than  by  rail  and  they  had  no 
money  to  spare  in  those  days.  He  remembered 
how  long  the  time  of  her  absence  had  seemed 
and  how  glad  he  was  to  know  that  she  would 
soon  be  with  him.  He  had  not  been  well,  had 
felt  queer  and  dull  for  days,  and  he  had  fan- 
cied that  when  Elizabeth  came  she  would 
brighten  him  up  and  he  would  be  all  right 
again. 

Then,  one  morning  just  when  he  was  count- 
ing the  hours  till  her  return,  he  took  up  the 
morning  paper  and  read  there,  under  staring 
head-lines  of  the  storm  on  the  Atlantic  coast, 
of  the  destruction  of  many  vessels,  among 
them  the  Jane  Allen,  which  had  sunk  with  all 
on  board,  only  a  sailor  or  so  escaping  almost  by 
miracle  to  tell  the  tale.  Frantic  telegrams 
brought  confirmation  of  this  report.  A  list  of 
the  Jane  Allen's  passengers  had  been  pub- 
lished, and  among  them  was  his  wife's  name. 
There  was  no  mistake. 

Under  other  circumstances  the  incipient 
typhoid  that  had  been  creeping  through  his 
veins  might  have  been  overcome,  but  the  de- 
spair and  excitement  gave  the  disease  firmer 
hold  upon  him  until  presently  he  lost  control 


172      WHAT    COULD    HE    DO? 

of  his  affairs  and  went  wandering  through  a 
phantom  world. 

Weeks  later  he  came  to  himself  in  the  hos- 
pital to  which  he  had  been  taken,  and  slowly 
took  up  the  burden  of  life  again.  His  first  act 
when  strength  returned  was  to  go  East  and  in- 
quire into  the  case  of  the  Jane  Allen,  but  there 
was  nothing  new  to  learn.  It  had  been  one  of 
the  nondescript  vessels  that  ply  along  the  New 
England  coast,  engaged  in  miscellaneous  traf- 
fic, carrying  occasional  passengers  and  picking 
up  such  freight  as  comes  their  way — a  craft 
not  overly  seaworthy  in  fair  weather  and  tak- 
ing perilous  risks  in  storms.  It  was  the  season 
of  gales,  and  it  was  a  terrific  equinoctial  storm, 
so-called,  that  had  finally  swept  the  Jane  Allen 
and  other  far  more  valuable  vessels  out  of  ex- 
istence. None  of  the  boat's  half  dozen  passen- 
gers had  escaped,  though  two  or  three  bodies, 
identified  as  having  been  on  board,  had  been 
washed  ashore,  but  Elizabeth's  was  not  among 
them. 

At  last  he  had  rebelliously  accepted  his  fate 
and  gone  his  way  in  the  world  again. 

He  recalled  all  these  things,  sitting  there 
with  the  slow  terror  settling  upon  him.  He 


WHAT    COULD    HE    DO?      173 

knew  how  he  came  to  believe  Elizabeth  dead, 
but  how  did  it  happen  that  she  thought  the 
same  of  him? 

Then  he  remembered  a  confusion  of  names 
which  had  caused  him  some  annoyance  while  he 
was  at  the  hospital.  In  the  room  next  to  his, 
by  an  odd  coincidence,  was  another  patient 
named  Miller — William  Henry  by  name,  it 
developed  later  when  his  obituary  was  pub- 
lished; but  the  two  were  each  entered  on  the 
books  as  "Win.  H.",  and  because  of  the  iden- 
tity of  names  the  hospital  attendants  made 
mistakes.  Orders  were  confused,  clothing  was 
mixed — William  Henry  was  a  small  man  and 
William  Harper  could  not  possibly  wear  his 
garments;  and  when  William  Henry  Miller 
died,  word  was  sent  to  the  firm  which  employed 
William  Harper  Miller  that  their  William 
H.'s  life  had  ended,  and  the  error  was  not  im- 
mediately discovered.  The  announcement 
even  got  into  one  of  the  papers. 

He  knew  nothing  of  this  at  the  time,  but 
weeks  later,  as  he  now  remembered,  living  that 
far-off  unhappy  time  over  again,  a  clerk  in 
the  office,  a  heedless  youth,  told  him  of  a  letter 
coming  to  the  firm  from  some  place  in  Ver- 


174      [WHAT    COULD   HE   DO? 

mont  He  thought — or  was  it  Massachusetts? — 
written  by  a  man  evidently  unused  to  handling 
a  pen,  asking  for  his,  William  Harper  Miller's 
address;  and  he,  the  clerk,  had  informed  the 
correspondent  that  the  man  of  whom  he  in- 
quired had  just  died.  The  clerk  could  not  re- 
call the  writer's  name. 

This  incident,  which  made  no  impression  at 
the  time,  took  on  a  new  significance  now  as 
it  came  dimly  back  out  of  the  mists  of  memory. 
The  writer  of  the  epistle  was  perhaps  one  in 
whose  home  Elizabeth  was  being  cared  for 
after  her  rescue — a  fisherman,  not  unlikely, 
unused  to  the  mysteries  of  correspondence  and 
following  her  probably  confused  instructions. 
OBut  undoubtedly  that  was  the  way  she  had 
come  to  believe  her  husband  dead.  He  could 
imagine  her  despair,  alone,  desolate,  with  her 
way  to  make  in  the  world. 

He  recalled  now,  too,  what  had  seemed  an 
inexcusable  blunder  at  the  hospital.  A  woman 
vaguely  designated  to  him  weeks  after  the  oc- 
currence as  from  "down  East  somewhere"  had 
written  asking  about  the  personal  effects  of 
William  H.  Miller,  who  had  died  on  a  certain 
date,  and  directing  that  they  be  forwarded  to 


iWHAT   COULD   HE   DO        175 

her,  his  widow ;  also  asking  particulars  as  to  his 
illness  and  death.  Naturally,  the  hospital 
attendants  had  no  reason  to  assume  that 
she  was  mistaken  as  to  the  dead  man's 
identity,  but  after  giving  her  the  desired 
information  and  telling  her  that  the  most 
of  her  husband's  few  possessions  had  been 
taken  away  by  the  benefit  order  that  had  his 
funeral  in  charge,  had  forwarded  to  her  the 
other  Miller's,  really  her  own  husband's  seal 
ring,  a  pocket-knife  and  one  or  two  other 
trifles.  It  was  a  blundering  hospital  office, 
and  as  it  appeared  now,  it  seemed  to  have  con- 
spired with  fate  to  bring  him  to  grief.  Eliza- 
beth had  the  trinkets  which  she  knew  to  be  his, 
and,  having  them,  needed  no  further  confir- 
mation of  his  death. 

As  he  sat  there  staring  into  vacancy,  more 
old  memories  revived.  He  had  loved  Eliza- 
beth. Their  year  of  life  together  had  been 
ideally  happy.  They  had  been  sufficient  for 
each  other  and  had  not  sought  or  needed  other 
society.  She  was  his  first  love  and — yes,  he 
would  have  to  admit  it,  his  dearest. 

How  much  a  man  recalls  of  life  with  his  first 
wife  when  he  has  married  a  second  is  problem- 


176      WHAT    COULD    HE    DO? 

atical,  but  when  for  any  reason  a  comparison 
is  made  he  is  doubtless  truthful  with  himself. 

As  the  situation  forced  itself  on  him  in  all  its 
complications,  Miller  found  himself  wonder- 
ing if  he  were  suffering  from  some  hideous 
nightmare.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  he, 
a  well-meaning  honest  man,  could  be  caught 
in  such  a  plight. 

He  had  loved  Elizabeth,  but  when  she  had 
been  gone  for  nearly  three  years — gone  to 
Heaven  he  had  thought — he  had  married  again ; 
and  if  he  had  not  been  as  blissfully  happy  as 
with  his  first  love,  he  had  at  least  been  comfort- 
able and  content.  Gertrude  was  a  good 
woman,  and  there  were  the  children,  his  beau- 
tiful three-year-old  boy  and  his  baby  girl!  He 
loved  those  children  with  a  passionate  and  jeal- 
ous love.  Not  all  men  do  care  greatly  for  their 
sons  and  daughters.  With  some,  at  least,  af- 
fection is  a  gradually  acquired  sentiment, 
aroused  largely  by  qualities  in  their  offspring 
that  first  excite  paternal  pride.  But  Miller 
had  something  of  the  yearning  compelling 
love  that  a  mother  feels.  The  world  had  been 
new  to  him  since  his  son  was  born.  All  his  in- 
terests had  centered  in  the  child.  He  rejoiced 


WHAT    COULD   HE   DO?      177 

in  his  lusty  babyhood  and  he  planned  for  his 
future,  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  his 
sake. 

And  now  the  boy — he  faced  the  truth  with  a 
groan  and  with  horror — the  boy  had  not  even 
the  legal  right  to  his  father's  name.  Miller 
looked  out  with  unseeing  eyes  toward  the  blue 
rim  of  the  distant  hills.  What  could  he  do, 
what  should  he  do? 

His  first  impulse  was  to  run,  manlike,  to  the 
woman,  to  Elizabeth,  and  lay  his  burden  upon 
her ;  to  ask  her  what  he  should  do.  Moreover, 
he  felt  a  great  longing  to  speak  to  her  once 
more.  Now  that  the  wonderful  knowledge 
had  come  to  him  that  she  was  in  the  land  of  the 
living,  he  yearned  for  the  touch  of  her  hand, 
for  a  look  into  the  blue  eyes.  His  heart 
throbbed  faster  as  he  thought  of  her.  He  had 
loved  Elizabeth — he,  he  might  love  her  still, 
if— 

He  caught  himself  with  a  start.  He  must 
not  see  her.  No  one  must  know  his  secret.  He 
must  get  away  from  the  village  without  her 
knowing.  He  hoped  he  could  escape  without 
the  mischance  of  meeting  her.  He  would  go 
to  the  station  by  a  roundabout  way. 


178      WHAT    COULD    HE    DO? 

He  could  never  tell  Gertrude  the  truth.  A 
shudder  ran  over  him  at  the  thought.  She 
would  leave  him  instantly  and  take  the  chil- 
dren. The  law  gives  the  mother  who  has  no 
husband  the  sole  right  to  her  babies.  She  had 
wealthy  relatives  who  would  provide  for  her, 
and  his  children  would  be  reared  with  no 
knowledge  of  their  father. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  paced  restlessly 
up  and  down.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought; 
he  could  not,  he  would  not,  be  parted  from 
them. 

There  was,  of  course,  the  possibility  of  di- 
vorce ;  he  could  get  one,  no  doubt.  Or  he  could 
tell  Elizabeth  and  she  would  sacrifice  herself, 
he  felt  sure,  and  procure  a  legal  separation. 
But  a  divorce  could  not  be  kept  secret,  and  a 
cloud  would  be  upon  his  children's  name. 
Moreover,  he  was  not  sure  as  to  Gertrude's 
course  even  then.  She  was  a  proud  woman  and 
from  the  beginning  had  been  jealous  even  of 
the  memory  of  Elizabeth.  She  might,  under 
the  circumstances,  and  for  her  children's  sake, 
be  willing  to  waive  her  strict  scruples  against 
divorce,  or  she  might  not;  to  remarry  him, 
knowing  that  Elizabeth,  the  wife  of  his  youth 


WHAT   COULD    HE    DO?      179 

whom  he  had  mourned  so  bitterly,  was  alive — 
would  she  do  this  for  any  cause  whatever?  He 
could  not  feel  sure. 

The  train  came  at  last  and  he  went  his  way, 
feeling,  in  spite  of  his  anxiety  to  escape  un- 
seen, a  strong  wish  to  linger  until  he  could 
catch  another  glimpse  of  his  first  love. 

Time  did  not  solve  his  problem.  Weeks 
went  by,  and  months,  and  it  was  constantly 
with  him.  His  mind  wandered  back  to  that 
little  New  Hampshire  town,  and  the  image  of 
the  woman  in  whom  his  life  had  once  centered 
was  more  often  before  him  than  that  of  the 
mother  of  his  children.  He  felt  a  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility for  her.  That  she  should  be  toil- 
ing for  her  daily  bread  distressed  him  and  he 
tried  to  devise  means  by  which  he  could  supply 
her  with  an  income  without  her  learning 
its  source,  but  could  think  of  none.  He  was 
himself,  in  these  later  years,  prospering  great- 
ly, and  could  help  her  without  depriving  his 
family  of  any  comforts  or  rights. 

His  imagination,  too,  conjured  up  many 
fears.  Elizabeth  had  made  but  few  acquaint- 
ances during  their  short  year  of  life  together, 
but  some  among  those  few  might  stumble  upon 


180      WHAT    COULD    HE    DO? 

her  in  that  little  town,  as  he  had  done,  and  she 
would  learn  the  truth.  Or  she  might  some  day 
take  it  into  her  head  to  revisit  the  place  where  v 
they  had  been  so  happy.  Women  were  senti- 
mental and  she  might  like  to  see  his  grave,  and 
he  laughed  grimly  as  the  thought  occurred  to 
him. 

Sometimes  the  problem  bore  upon  him  with 
such  heaviness  that  he  felt  wearily  that  he 
would  gladly  bid  farewell  to  earth  if  he  might 
he  rid  of  the  burden,  and  suicide  presented 
itself  as  a  possibility.  Then  he  reflected 
that  his  death  would  mend  nothing,  for 
if  the  secret  became  known  after  he  was 
gone  the  law  would  give  his  estate  to  his 
lawful  wife  and  all  the  protection  he  now 
sought  to  give  his  children  would  come  to 
naught.  He  longed  intensely  to  confide  in 
some  one,  but  dared  not  tell  his  story  to  his 
nearest  friend,  for  friends  can  not  be  trusted 
with  such  secrets.  Once,  in  desperation,  he  en- 
tered a  Catholic  confessional,  though  he  was 
not  of  that  faith,  and  laid  his  case  before  the 
listening  priest.  What  he  was  enjoined  to  do 
he  never  told,  but  he  came  out  shaking  his 
shoulders  impatiently,  muttering,  "What  does 


WHAT    COULD    HE    DO?      181 

a  priest  know,  a  priest  who  has  neither  wife  nor 
child?" 

He  became  restless  and  irritable.  His  wife 
advised  with  the  doctor,  urged  him  to  take  a 
rest,  showed  herself  solicitous  for  his  welfare, 
and  the  more  manifest  her  affection  grew  the 
more  impatient  he  became. 

Not  in  the  least  did  he  deceive  himself.  He 
had  come  to  long  with  a  mighty  longing  for 
Elizabeth.  Not  for  a  moment  did  he  weaken 
in  his  determination  never  to  betray  his  secret 
to  Gertrude  or  to  part  from  his  children,  but 
the  natural  man  in  him  yearned  for  the  other 
woman.  He  wanted  to  see  her  face  brighten  in 
the  old  way  at  his  presence.  He  wanted  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  her  dear  head  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

He  caught  himself  reading  with  a  strange 
interest  stories  of  men  who  had  led  double 
lives,  men  with  two  families,  neither  of  which 
knew  of  the  other's  existence,  and  realized  that 
he  had  a  sympathy  for  such  men.  Being  an 
honest  man  of  decent  instincts,  he  could  not 
bring  himself  deliberately  to  contemplate 
such  a  life  as  that  for  his  own,  but  he 
asked  himself  why  he  might  not  at  least 


182      WHAT    COULD    HE    DO? 

make  himself  known  to  Elizabeth  and  de- 
lay telling  her  the  truth  until  he  learned  her 
sentiments.  Perhaps  she  had  ceased  to  care 
for  him,  which  would  simplify  matters  and 
make  his  course  clearer;  or  perhaps  she  might 
think  of  marrying  some  other  man.  The  sud- 
den pang  at  his  heart  when  this  thought  first 
occurred  to  him  was  its  own  proof  that  he  could 
not  willingly  give  her  the  privilege  he  had  in- 
nocently taken  for  himself,  and  now  deliber- 
ately meant  to  retain. 

He  tried  to  give  his  mind  to  his  business  and 
his  home  as  he  had  done  before  that  fatal  day 
in  Silverton,  but  even  while  Gertrude  talked  to 
him  his  thoughts  were  of  the  other  one.  He 
saw  the  changing  color  of  her  fair  face,  the  old 
love  light  in  her  eyes — the  eyes  through  which 
he  had  seen  heaven  for  one  beautiful  year.  In 
the  background  of  his  thoughts  she  stood  con- 
tinually. She  drew  him  like  a  magnet.  Yet 
forever  between  them,  holding  them  apart, 
were  his  children,  Gertrude's  children.  He 
could  not  give  them  up,  yet  with  them  while 
that  lonely  woman  beckoned  him  he  could  not 
be  at  peace.  His  soul  was  torn  with  conflicting 
affections  and  conflicting  duties.  He  looked 


WHAT    COULD   HE   DO?      183 

down  a  dreary  vista  of  years  wondering  how 
long  he  could  endure  the  strain. 

One  day  he  came  to  a  swift  determination 
and  packed  his  valise  for  a  journey. 

"I  may  at  least  have  another  chance  glimpse 
of  her,"  he  said,  knowing  in  his  heart  that  he 
could  not  again  see  her  and  depart  in  silence. 

Then  came  his  hoy,  with  clinging  arms. 
"Take  Bohby,  Bobby  go,"  he  cried.  "Bobby 
love  Papa  a  big  world  full." 

The  father  clasped  the  baby  tight,  feeling 
that  to  go  on  the  journey  suddenly  planned 
might  mean  a  long  and  last  farewell  to  this 
home. 

"I  can't  do  it,  little  son,  I  can't  leave  you. 
We'll  stay  together."  He  hid  his  face  in  the 
child's  soft  hair,  whispering  with  a  sense  of 
relief,  "It's  settled  for  to-day,  at  least."  And 
he  laughed  forlornly,  but  the  little  son  clapped 
his  hands. 


A  STORY  WITHOUT  A  MORAL 

EARLY  May  was  in  its  glory.  The 
young  leaves  on  tree  and  shrub  were  un- 
folding in  the  warm  sunshine  with  a  haste  that 
made  their  growth  almost  visible  to  the  eye  that 
watched  them.  The  brilliant  green  of  the  new 
grass  was  starred  with  dandelions.  The  girl 
at  the  open  window  of  a  house  on  the  broad 
street  noted,  even  in  her  preoccupation,  the 
picturesque  effect  of  a  redbud  tree  in  bloom 
against  a  gray  wall.  In  a  vista  between  the 
two  houses  opposite  she  could  see  that  blossoms 
were  beginning  to  open  on  cherry  trees  like 
scattered  flakes  of  snow.  Spring  was  in  the 
air,  and  all  nature  should  have  responded,  but 
the  heart  of  the  girl  at  the  window  was  out  of 
harmony.  With  the  tide  of  youth  full  in  her 
veins,  she  looked  out  on  her  little  world  with 
dull  unhappy  eyes.  Their  somber  expression 
deepened  as  a  gay  chattering  party  of  young 
men  and  girls,  all  of  whom  she  knew,  passed 
up  the  street  without  so  much  as  a  glance  her 

way. 

184 


Her  mother,  a  placid  lady  never  consciously 
aware  of  nature's  moods  and  the  season's 
changes  save  as  her  housekeeping  was  affected 
thereby,  sat  near,  embroidering  pink  carna- 
tions on  a  linen  lunch-cloth. 

"If  you  are  going  down-town  this  morning, 
Charlotte,  I  wish  you  would  stop  at  Gibson's 
and  get  me  half  a  dozen  skeins  of  this  embroid- 
ery silk.  Here's  a  sample.  I'm  anxious  to  get 
this  cloth  done  before  the  missionary  society 
meets  on  Saturday.  You  know  it  is  an  extra 
occasion  because  two  returned  missionaries  are 
to  be  with  us,  and  I  am  to  have  the  meeting 
here.  When  you  are  down  don't  forget  to  buy 
a  new  pair  of  white  slippers,  if  you  are  going 
to  Julia's  party.  Your  old  ones  are  really  too 
shabby." 

"I  shall  not  go  to  Julia's  party,  mother.  I 
shall  never  go  to  any  one's  party  again,"  the 
girl  went  on  vehemently.  "What's  the  use? 
I'm  dull  and  unattractive.  No  one  invites  me 
to  dance  except  now  and  then  Harry  or  Joe 
Wilson,  just  because  they  are  sorry  for  me.  I 
have  to  hang  around  with  the  chaperons,  a 
wallflower  and  an  object  of  pity.  Some- 
thing's wrong  with  me.  I  can't  have  a  good 


time  like  other  people  and  I  shan't  try  any 
more." 

Tears  were  in  her  eyes  and  a  flush  on  her 
cheeks,  but  if  she  hoped  for  sympathy  from 
her  mother  she  was  disappointed. 

That  lady  looked  a  little  surprised  at  her 
daughter's  outburst,  but  evidently  regarded  it 
as  indicating  nothing  more  than  a  passing 
mood  of  irritation,  and  studied  her  embroidery 
pattern  carefully,  with  her  needle  poised  above 
it.  She  was  not  a  woman  who  penetrated  be- 
neath the  surface  of  words. 

"Well,  you  know,  Charlotte,"  she  said,  as  she 
thrust  the  needle  through  the  cloth,  "I  never 
did  quite  approve  of  your  going  to  dances.  I 
know  young  people  do  go,  and  their  church 
connection  doesn't  seem  to  make  any  differ- 
ence, but  I  wasn't  brought  up  that  way  and  I 
can't  make  it  seem  just  right.  If  you  don't 
care  to  go  any  more  I  shan't  worry.  I'd  rather 
you'd  entertain  yourself  some  other  way,  but  if 
you  do  go  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  have 
as  much  attention  as  other  girls.  I'm  sure  you 
look  as  well  as  any  of  them.  Your  clothes  are 
better  than  a  good  many  of  the  girls  have  and 
you  know  your  pa  is  always  willing  for  you  to 


WITHOUT    A   MORAL         187 

buy  anything  in  reason.     He  wants  you  to 
dress  nicely." 

"Oh,   mother,   the   trouble   isn't   with   my 
clothes,"  the  girl  said  wearily.    "It's  with  me." 

As  she  left  the  room  her  mother  contrasted 
this  girl  with  her  elder  daughter,  Susan,  con- 
siderably to  the  younger  one's  disadvantage. 
Susan  had  been  a  girl  after  her  own  heart. 
She  had,  as  one  might  say,  grown  up  in  the 
church  and  had  never  shown  a  taste  for  worldly 
pleasures.  She  had  belonged  to  the  Christian 
Endeavor  Society,  had  taught  in  Sunday- 
school,  had  sung  in  the  choir,  had  assisted  in  all 
the  church  suppers  and  other  social  functions; 
and  had,  while  still  very  young  and  before  any 
one  had  suspected  such  a  possibility,  quietly 
announced  to  her  parents  her  engagement  to 
the  most  eligible  man  in  the  church,  a  devout 
youth  in  training  to  succeed  his  father  as  head 
of  the  biggest  department  store  in  town. 

Charlotte  was  so  different,  her  mother 
sighed.  She  had  insisted  on  going  away  to 
school,  for  one  thing.  She  had  wanted  to  go  to 
a  coeducational  college  with  some  of  her 
friends.  But  her  father  did  not  approve  of 
such  institutions,  and  sent  her  to  a  school  for 


188         WITHOUT   A   MORAL 

girls  conducted  on  very  strict  principles  by 
two  ladies  of  advanced  years  who  disapproved 
extremely  of  modern  methods.  When  she  re- 
turned from  this  school  she  showed  a  distaste 
for  what  her  mother  called  church  life,  a  thing 
the  parent  could  not  understand  in  view  of  the 
religious  atmosphere  with  which  she  had  been 
surrounded  in  the  school.  On  the  contrary,  she 
had  displayed  a  preference  for  the  society  of 
young  persons  of  the  gayer,  more  frivolous 
sort.  Now,  she  as  unaccountably  manifested  a 
dislike  for  this  same  society.  Mrs.  Hobbs  con- 
fessed to  herself  that  she  did  not  understand 
Charlotte,  but  she  had  nevertheless  no  manner 
of  misgiving  about  the  girl. 

"She  is  a  little  slow  in  coming  to  herself/' 
the  mother  said,  "but  when  she  does  she'll  mar- 
ry and  settle  down  all  right.  All  the  girls  do 
in  our  family."  And  she  went  on  placidly 
with  her  needlework  and  turned  her  mind  to 
other  matters. 

Charlotte  herself  had  some  time  ago  reached 
the  conclusion  that  in  all  probability  she  would 
never  marry.  It  was  not  that  she  had  an  antip- 
a,thy  to  matrimony;  quite  otherwise.  Mar- 
riage had  figured  among  her  dreams  of  the 


WITHOUT    A    MORAL         189 

future  just  as  it  does  among  those  of  other 
normal  girls,  but  in  her  case  she  felt  that  there 
was  little  chance  for  the  dreams  to  be  realized. 
Here  she  was  twenty-two  years  old,  and  she 
had  never  had  a  masculine  admirer.  She  some- 
how did  not  know  how  to  get  on  with  young 
men.  They  did  not  "take"  to  her.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  shy  exactly,  but  she  was  stiff,  she 
knew  that.  She  had  no  brothers  and  had  never 
known  any  boys  very  well  except  Harry  and 
Joe  Wilson,  who  lived  next  door,  and  had  been 
her  good  friends  before  she  went  to  school.  But 
even  they  were  nice  to  her  now  because  they 
had  to  be.  She  knew  the  trouble  was  with  her- 
self, but  she  did  not  know  exactly  what  it  was. 
Other  girls  who  were  no  better-looking  and  no 
more  clever  than  she,  some,  indeed,  who  were 
stupid  and  dull,  were  favorites  with  the  men. 
She  didn't  understand  it,  but,  anyway,  she 
would  not  be  humiliated  any  more  by  going 
where  she  was  passed  by  and  ignored. 

Mothers  of  some  of  the  girls  invited  young 
men  to  the  house  and  made  them  so  welcome 
that  they  gladly  came  again,  and  such  women's 
daughters  usually  married  well;  but  Char- 
lotte's mother  regarded  such  conduct  as 


190      WITHOUT  A  MORAL; 

quite  shocking.  She  thanked  heaven  that  she 
was  not  a  managing  mama  and  was  not  of- 
fering her  daughter  in  marriage.  She  pre- 
ferred to  trust  Providence  to  choose  a  hus- 
band for  her  girls  in  the  good  old-fashioned 
way. 

As  Charlotte  went  down  the  street,  its  long 
vista  reminded  her  of  the  lonely  dusty  road 
that  stretched  before  her  through  life,  and 
her  throat  ached  as  she  wondered  how  she  could 
endure  the  weary  way.  She  might  live  for 
fifty  years  or  more,  and  she  was  tired  of  life 
already.  She  wished  she  had  not  been  born. 

Age  may  smile  at  the  sorrows  of  youth, 
knowing  how  brief  they  are,  but  youth,  it 
should  be  remembered,  has  not  this  consoling 
knowledge,  and  its  griefs  are  bitter  indeed 
while  they  last.  On  her  way  she  met  two 
young  women  of  her  acquaintance,  who,  after 
they  passed,  commented  freely  on  Charlotte's 
characteristics  as  it  is  the  wont  of  friends  to 
do  concerning  each  other. 

"It's  a  pity  Charlotte  Hobbs  isn't  more  at- 
tractive. She's  a  social  failure  if  there  ever 
was  one,  and  she's  a  nice  clever  girl,  too," 
said  one.  "I  can't  understand  it." 


WITHOUT   A   MORAL         191 

"It  isn't  her  looks,  surely,"  replied  the  other. 
"Charlotte  is  really  a  pretty  girl,  an  uncom- 
monly pretty  girl,  or  would  be  if  she  gave  her- 
self half  a  chance  and  showed  a  little  anima- 
tion. She  has  not  an  atom  of  style.  Doesn't 
hold  her  chin  up,  as  father  is  always  telling  us 
to  do  when  he  means  that  he  wants  us  to  have 
pluck  and  determination.  She's  all  right  with 
the  girls,  but  when  the  boys  are  around  she 
stiffens  up  and  freezes  them.  Doesn't  mean  it, 
I  know,  but  the  boys  take  it  that  she's  offish, 
and  keep  away  from  her." 

"What  Charlotte  lacks  is  a  proper  apprecia- 
tion of  herself,"  observed  the  other  sagely. 
"She  needs  more  self-confidence.  She  doesn't 
know  how  to  make  the  most  of  her  good  points. 
Doesn't  really  know  what  her  good  points  are." 

Charlotte,  meanwhile,  was  still  plunged  in 
gloomy  meditation,  the  charm  of  the  May 
morning  not  being  sufficient  to  bring  good 
cheer. 

She  visited  the  library  and  borrowed  a  new 
novel,  she  bought  her  mother's  embroidery  silk, 
and  since  she  was  down-town  decided  that,  af- 
ter all,  she  might  as  well  buy  the  new  white 
slippers.  "Even  if  I  don't  attend  any  more 


192         WITHOUT   A   MORAL 

dances  there  are  other  uses  for  slippers," 
she  said  to  herself.  While  she  was  about  it, 
too,  she  took  a  look  at  the  latest  hats,  and  tried 
on  several,  from  which  it  will  be  perceived  that 
her  melancholy  views  of  life  had  not  destroyed 
her  feminine  interest  in  finery. 

Then,  on  her  way  homeward,  she  turned  the 
corner  of  a  building  with  her  parasol  tilted 
well  down  before  her  eyes,  and  ran  plump  into 
a  man  coming  in  the  opposite  direction.  That 
is,  she  struck  him  with  the  top  of  her  parasol, 
and  with  a  wish  to  save  his  eye  from  being  pen- 
etrated by  the  ferrule  he  grasped  this  portion 
of  the  sunshade  with  some  force  and  broke  it 
sharply  off  in  his  hand. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

The  two  stood  there  for  a  moment  face  to 
face,  she  in  some  bewilderment,  he  smiling 
cheerfully  with  an  air  of  being  equal  to  all  oc- 
casions. 

He  took  the  parasol  from  her  hand  and  ex- 
amined the  extent  of  the  damage. 

"As  I  am  guilty  of  breaking  this  useful  ar- 
ticle, I  shall  see  that  it  is  mended  if  you  will 
allow  me." 


WITHOUT   A   MORAL         193 

"Certainly  not,"  she  returned,  "I  am  the  one 
to  blame.  It  was  careless  of  me  to  turn  a  cor- 
ner without  looking  before  me." 

He  was  walking  at  her  side  by  this  time, 
with  the  parasol  in  his  hand.  "Don't  apolo- 
gize. Consider  rather  that  you  conferred  a 
favor  on  an  unhappy  man.  Think,  please,  of 
a  man,  a  stranger  to  the  town,  with  a  long  day 
before  him,  wondering  dismally  how  he  is  to 
pass  it  and  wishing  for  some  charitable  soul 
to  give  him  a  kind  word.  Consider  such  a  one 
and  then  fancy  his  gratitude  on  suddenly,  even 
if  forcibly,  meeting  a  beautiful  young  woman 
who  looks  kind." 

He  was  gazing  at  her  and  Charlotte,  glanc- 
ing at  him,  noted  an  expression  of  frank  ad- 
miration in  his  eyes,  a  look  which  no  woman 
mistakes.  She  felt  her  heart  beat  unaccount- 
ably. She  was  not  used  to  being  admired,  and 
she  secretly  found  it  very  agreeable,  but  she 
knew  she  ought  not  to  be  receiving  such 
glances  from  a  stranger,  even  though  they 
were  quite  respectful,  and  that  she  ought  not  to 
be  walking  with  him. 

"Let  me  have  my  parasol  and  I  will  go  home 
now,"  she  said,  dismissing  him. 


194 

The  stranger  showed  no  sign  of  turning 
back.  "It  looks  like  a  beautiful  street  ahead 
of  us,"  he  said,  "I  should  like  to  stroll  through 
it." 

"You  have  that  privilege;  the  streets  are 
open  to  residents  and  visitors  alike,"  she  said. 
"Please  give  me  my  parasol." 

"I  throw  myself  on  your  mercy.  I  am  sim- 
ply perishing  for  some  one  to  talk  to  who  is 
like  my  own  people.  Really,  I  suppose  I'm 
homesick.  And  you  looked  as  if  you  would 
understand." 

"But  I  don't  know  you,  sir,"  she  said,  a 
statement  which  was  not  strictly  true,  for  she 
had  recognized  him  as  one  of  the  actors  in  a 
play  which  was  booked  for  two  or  three  weeks' 
stay  at  the  Globe  Theater,  a  performance  of 
which  she  had  attended  one  afternoon. 

"That  ignorance  is  easily  remedied.  On  the 
theater  programs  I  am  down  as  Vincent  Syl- 
vester, this  to  save  the  feelings  of  my  family, 
who  feel  that  I  am  lowering  the  ancestral 
name,  which  is  the  plain  one  of  Robinson.  I 
am  John  Robinson,  at  your  service.  Oh,  yes, 
I  know  that  we  are  defying  Mrs.  Grundy,  but 
don't  you  think  there  is  something  in  this  in- 


WITHOUT   A   MORAL1         195 

i 

spiring  spring  air  that  justifies  independence 
of  her?" 

Charlotte  laughed,  blushed  and  dimpled. 
She  was  really  shocked  at  her  own  conduct,  but 
she  recklessly  resolved  to  continue  the  acquaint- 
ance so  informally  begun.  She  knew  the  man 
at  her  side  might  be  a  scamp,  that  his  name 
might  not  be  Robinson  and  that  his  compli- 
ments might  be  hollow  mockery,  yet  it  was 
something  to  have  compliments  on  any  basis. 
He  was  good  to  look  upon,  she  found  his  pres- 
ence agreeable  and  she  would  see  the  adventure 
further. 

So  they  strolled  slowly  on  up  the  street  to- 
gether and  talked  of  all  manner  of  things. 
From  some  cause  which  she  could  not  explain, 
and  there  was  an  undercurrent  of  wonder  in 
her  mind  about  it  even  while  she  talked,  she 
was  entirely  at  ease  with  him.  His  attitude 
toward  her  was  as  if  she  were  a  beauty  and  a 
belle  and  as  if  he  were  distinctly  honored  by 
being  allowed  to  be  in  her  company.  She 
glanced  at  him  now  and  then  with  suspicion  to 
discover  if  there  was  any  lack  of  sincerity  in 
his  deferential  manner  and  his  delicate  intima- 
tions that  she  was  a  queen,  whose  word  was 


196         WITHOUT   A   MORAL 

law,  but  she  could  detect  no  smallest  sign  that 
he  was  laughing  at  her,  so  her  confidence  was 
strengthened.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  ac- 
cepting her  as  the  typical  American  girl,  that 
wonderful  being  who,  according  to  the  ro- 
mancers and  the  writers  for  the  press,  has  the 
world  at  her  feet.  But  even  so,  and  though  she 
was  no  such  brilliant  creature,  and  though  he 
might  be  regarding  her  with  secret  amusement, 
the  moment  and  the  experience  had  their  charm 
and  she  was  loath  to  end  them. 

So  was  her  companion  evidently,  for  when, 
presently,  they  reached  a  little  park,  he  pro- 
posed that  they  go  and  sit  on  one  of  the 
benches.  She  hesitated  but  a  moment,  then  ac- 
companied him  with  a  smile  that  gave  her  the 
air  of  conferring  an  undeserved  favor. 

"You  are  good  to  a  poor  beggar,"  he  said, 
settling  himself  with  a  sigh  of  content. 

"There  are  people  who  would  say  I  am  very 
wicked,  sitting  here  with  you,  a  man  I  had 
never  met  an  hour  ago,  and  to  whom  I  have 
not  been  introduced.  Those  nursemaids  would 
be  greatly  shocked  and  those  nice  old  people 
sunning  themselves  on  the  benches  would  shake 


WITHOUT    A   MORAL         197 

their  heads  at  me  mournfully  if  they  knew  the 
heinousness  of  my  conduct." 

"But  surely  you  do  not  feel  wicked.  Your 
consciousness  of  having  done  a  benevolent 
deed  should  save  you  from  that." 

"I  regret  to  say  that  I  do  not.  My  con- 
science acts  slowly.  To-morrow  I  shall  suffer 
deep  remorse." 

"Let  us  not  think  of  to-morrow.  Let  us 
think  of  to-day  and  of  spring  and  be  happy. 
As  for  me,  I  feel  that  I  am  experiencing  the 
reward  of  virtue  and  am  at  peace  with  the 
world." 

They  talked  of  the  stage  and  he  satisfied  her 
girlish  curiosity  as  to  its  mysteries.  He  had 
not  been  in  the  actor's  profession  very  long 
himself,  but  already,  he  admitted,  his  confident 
expectations  of  becoming  an  Irving  or  a  Booth 
were  fading  and  he  thought  it  not  impossible 
that  the  theater  would  suffer  no  loss  by  his 
withdrawal  from  it.  Also  they  discussed 
sports — baseball,  golf,  polo  and  other  strange 
athletic  amusements  modern  youth  has  an  in- 
terest in.  Then  they  skirted  around  sentiment- 
al topics,  as  man  and  maid  will  do  even  on 


198      WITHOUT  A  MORAL; 

short  acquaintance,  and  they  looked  in  each 
other's  eyes  also  as  man  and  maid  will  do,  and 
thought  vague  thoughts  that  they  did  not 
speak,  and  were  frankly  glad  to  be  alive. 

He  would  have  walked  with  her  to  her  door, 
but  she  said  no. 

"Let  us  say  good-by  now,  Mr.  Robinson." 

"Good-by  is  a  sad  word.  Let  us  postpone  it. 
Let  us  think  of  to-morrow.  When  you  go 
down-town  at  noon  to  the  library  to  return  this 
book — I  am  sure  you  will  have  finished  it  by 
that  time — I  shall  be  there  and  we  shall  have 
luncheon  together  and  you  will  again  make  a 
lonely  fellow  happy." 

She  did  not  promise,  but  went  home  with 
eyes  bright  and  head  held  high,  a  very  different 
being  from  the  gloomy  girl  who  had  gone  out 
two  hours  before.  On  her  way  she  met  Harry 
Wilson  and  flashed  so  brilliant  a  smile  at  him 
that  he  turned  at  his  gate  in  wonder  and  looked 
after  her.  Sudden  admiration  was  in  his  eyes, 
and  glancing  back  as  she  entered  her  own  door, 
she  felt  it  and  smiled  with  a  subtle  knowledge 
that  had  not  been  hers  in  the  morning — the  be- 
ginning of  a  knowledge  of  her  own  powers. 

She    went    to    the    luncheon    next    day 


WITHOUT  rA  MORAIT      199 

and  lingered  over  it,  thinking  little  of  the  food 
she  ate  but  enjoying  to  the  utmost  her  new  ac- 
quaintance with  herself.  This  time  Mr.  Rob- 
inson accompanied  her  to  her  door,  for  she  had 
found  that  he  was  a  cousin  of  one  of  her  class- 
mates in  the  young  ladies'  school  and  she 
could,  therefore,  account  for  him  to  her  mother 
in  case  that  lady  should  ask  troublesome  ques- 
tions. Not  that  she  anticipated  anything  of 
the  sort,  for  Mrs.  Hobbs  held  firmly  to  the 
simple  American  faith  that  a  young  girl  is 
competent  to  manage  her  own  love  affairs. 

But  this  was  not  really  a  love  affair.  A  rep- 
rehensible flirtation  it  might  be,  and  at  first 
there  was  a  bewilderment  and  an  unaccustomed 
sensation  about  it  that  led  Charlotte  to  wonder 
if  she  had  met  her  fate.  But  her  balance  was 
speedily  restored  and  she  had  a  reason  all  her 
own  for  knowing  that  nothing  .  serious  could 
come  of  the  acquaintance  with  this  pleasant 
stranger.  Besides,  he  gave  her  no  impression 
of  being  serious  himself.  All  their  intercourse 
was  of  the  touch-and-go  character  that  may  at 
any  moment  take  on  significance  or  may  be- 
come a  vague  and  fading  memory  of  a  passing 
episode.  Yet  every  day  she  met  her  new 


200         WITHOUT   A   MORAL 

friend  and  every  day  she  became  more  glad 
that  she  had  heen  born.  Her  friends  noticed  a 
difference  in  her  so  marked  that  they  marveled. 
She  had  the  manner  of  being  awake  to  what 
went  on  about  her  in  a  way  she  had  never  shown 
before ;  she  was  gay  and  self-confident ;  it  was 
transformation.  The  younger  people  of  her 
acquaintance  commented  upon  it  and  won- 
dered. Even  her  unobservant  mother  remarked 
with  satisfaction  that  Charlotte  had  got  over 
the  blues,  and  her  father  told  her  that  she  was 
growing  to  look  like  her  Aunt  Mary,  who, 
Charlotte  was  aware,  had  been  a  great  beauty 
of  more  than  local  fame. 

Her  friend  and  neighbor,  Harry  Wilson, 
who  had  seen  the  stranger  escort  her  to  her 
gate  on  more  than  one  occasion,  suddenly  de- 
veloped an  interest  in  her  proceedings  and  took 
it  upon  himself  to  remonstrate  with  her. 

"Charlotte,  what  do  you  mean  by  letting 
that  actor  fellow  trail  around  after  you?  What 
do  you  know  about  him?" 

"Highty-tighty,  Master  Harry!  Do  you 
think  I  would  allow  an  actor  fellow  to  trail  if 
I  didn't  know  all  about  him?  You're  not  com- 
plimentary to  me."  And  she  laughed  in  an 


WITHOUT   A   MORAL         201 

unconcerned  way  that  Mr.  Harry  chose  to  re- 
gard as  very  exasperating. 

She  was  no  longer  the  meek  creature  who 
had  been  wont  to  receive  his  occasional  and 
somewhat  perfunctory  attentions  with  obvious 
gratitude  and  to  listen  to  his  lordly  criticisms  in 
humble  silence.  The  young  man  spent  consid- 
erable time  in  cogitating  over  her  conduct,  a 
thing  he  had  never  felt  the  need  of  doing  be- 
fore in  all  the  years  of  their  acquaintance. 

Possibly  as  the  outcome  of  these  meditations 
he  offered  himself  as  escort  to  Julia's  dance, 
her  father  usually  serving  in  that  capacity  on 
such  occasions. 

She  graciously  accepted  his  offer,  having 
changed  her  determination  in  regard  to  that 
festivity  so  positively  announced  to  her  mother 
a  few  days  before. 

At  this  dance  she  was  not  a  wallflower.  She 
did  not  know  why.  She  did  know  that  she 
felt  quite  sure  she  would  be  asked  to  dance, 
and  she  was  not  disappointed.  The  young 
men  who  asked  her  were  the  same  ones  who  had 
been  passing  her  by,  yet  they  now  felt  impelled 
somehow  to  give  attention  to  her.  She  was  the 
same  girl,  yet  she  was  different.  She  was  pret- 


202         WITHOUT   A  MORAL, 

tier  with  the  added  beauty  given  by  animation 
and  high  spirits ;  she  had  developed  no  new  ac- 
complishments and  no  miraculous  gift  had 
been  bestowed  on  her.  She  had  simply  emerged 
from  a  state  of  doubt  and  self -depreciation 
into  one  of  self-confidence  and  self-poise,  and 
felt  the  sense  of  freedom  that  a  newly  fledged 
bird,  just  trying  her  wings,  might  feel. 

A  shrewd  matron,  who  from  her  corner  had 
studied  the  characteristics  of  all  the  girls  dur- 
ing a  season  of  gaiety,  and  knew  their  faults 
and  virtues  better  than  their  own  mothers  did, 
noted  the  transformation  with  interest. 

"It  is  the  awakening  of  a  sleeping  beauty," 
she  remarked.  "Where  is  the  fairy  prince  who 
waved  his  magic  wand?" 

It  was  the  wand  of  praise  and  admiration, 
not  of  love,  that  had  wrought  the  sudden 
change,  had  the  dame  but  known  it.  It  is  not 
alone  man's  love  that  works  magic  in  a 
woman's  soul.  Such  love  is  sometimes  a  thing 
apart  from  the  appreciative  understanding  the 
feminine  heart  almost  as  deeply  craves. 

Unexpectedly  at  a  late  hour  the  fairy  prince, 
otherwise  Vincent  Sylvester,  otherwise  John 
Robinson,  made  his  appearance  on  the  floor, 


WITHOUT   A   MORAL         203 

having  been  brought  there  in  the  easy  Ameri- 
can fashion,  through  permission  of  the  hostess, 
by  a  young  man  who  had  made  his  acquaint- 
ance in  the  hotel  lobby,  and  accepted  him,  as  he 
would  have  said,  at  his  face  value.  The  hand- 
some young  actor  was  at  once  an  object  of  in- 
terest. When  he  made  his  way  to  Charlotte  he 
found  her  the  center  of  a  lively  group.  Two 
weeks  before  she  would  have  met  him  with 
awkward  formality  and  self -consciousness. 
Now  she  greeted  him  gaily  as  an  old  friend 
and  made  him  one  of  her  little  circle,  feeling 
a  natural  feminine  sense  of  triumph  in  the  def- 
erence he  paid  to  her.  She  made  no  protests 
when  he  calmly  claimed  dances  she  had  prom- 
ised to  others,  and  secretly  hoped  when  she 
smiled  teasingly  at  the  flouted  ones,  that  they 
recalled  the  occasions  when  they  had  forgotten 
her.  Harry  Wilson,  who  was  among  those  so 
unceremoniously  set  aside,  openly  sulked. 
Whatever  else  might  happen  hereafter,  he 
seemed  unlikely  to  be  able  to  forget  this  very 
irritating  young  woman  again. 

On  their  way  home  he  unwisely  protested. 
"I  never  would  have  thought  you  were  the  kind 
of  a  girl  to  flirt  with  an  actor,  Charlotte  H,obbs 


204         WITHOUT    A   MORAL 

— a  fellow  nobody  knows  anything  about  at 
that." 

"Since  when  did  you  become  my  guardian, 
Harry,  boy?  I  don't  know  what  you  call  flirt- 
ing. Don't  you  think  some  attention  is  due 
to  a  strange  guest  in  a  friend's  house?" 

She  laughed  mockingly,  but  at  her  door  she 
gave  him  her  hand  and  said  such  a  soft  good 
night  that  he  went  home  with  his  heart  throb- 
bing as  he  had  never  dreamed  it  would  throb 
because  of  Charlotte  Hobbs,  but  as  hers  had 
beaten  for  him  many  a  time  in  the  past  unhap- 
py months. 

The  next  day  was  the  last  of  Sylvester's 
stay,  and  they  had  a  farewell  luncheon  to- 
gether. "If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said,  "now 
that  we  are  to  part,  I  should  like  to  know  why 
you,  a  young  woman,  as  I  found  last  night, 
with  so  many  admirers  that  you  could  afford  to 
snub  them, — I  should  like,  if  I  may,  to  know 
why  you  condescended  to  notice  me  ?  You  did 
not  know  but  that  I  might  be  a  villain." 

"Do  I  know  otherwise  now?"  she  asked 
sweetly. 

"But  surely  you  are  convinced.    You  must 


WITHOUT   A   MORAL         205 

have  an  instinct  that  I  am  what  I  profess  to  be, 
just  as  I  was  sure  that  you — " 

"That  I — of  course  you  knew  that  I  was  all 
right.  That's  different.  You  could  not  dare 
to  think  the  contrary,"  she  retorted  loftily. 
"Why  did  I  do  the  naughty  things  I  have 
been  doing:  making  your  acquaintance  on  the 
street,  and  meeting  you  in  the  park?  Shock- 
ing conduct,  wasn't  it?  But  think  of  this: 
Don't  you  suppose  that  the  tamest  of  girls  is 
tempted  to  break  out  of  the  traces  sometimes 
and  look  for  adventure?  That's  why,  if  you 
must  know." 

From  which  it  will  be  seen  that  Miss  Char- 
lotte was  a  disingenuous  person  who  did  not 
tell  all  the  truth.  But  she  could  not,  of  course, 
have  been  expected  to  confess  that  she  accepted 
the  stranger's  attentions  for  lack  of  any  from 
other  men. 

"No,"  she  went  on,  "I  do  not  know  that  you 
are  not  a  villain,  but  I  do  not  think  you  are, 
and  I  want  you  to  promise  me  when  you  go 
with  your  company  to  Chicago,  that  you  will 
not  make  the  acquaintance  of  any  girl  as  you 
made  mine." 


206         WITHOUT   A   MORAL 

He  laughed. 

"But  I  shall  he  lonely." 

"My  faith  in  you  is  such,"  she  said,  "that  I 
will  give  you  a  letter  to  my  dearest  friend,  a 
nice  girl  who  would  be  horrified  beyond  words 
if  she  knew  how  I  came  to  know  you." 

"And  you — shall  you,  do  you  think,  care  for 
further  adventure?"  he  asked. 

"Be  still!  No,  never  in  the  world.  Of 
course  not." 

"But  you  are  not  sorry  for  this  one?" 

"No,  I  am  not  sorry,"  she  said  frankly;  "I 
am  not  sorry,  I  am  glad,"  and  she  blushed  and 
sparkled,  and  a  stranger  at  a  table  facing  the 
two  decided  that  he  had  not  seen  a  prettier  girl 
in  many  a  long  day.  But  she  did  not  tell  her 
friend  that  she  was  glad  because  through  the 
adventure  she  had  now  another  lover. 

"As  for  me,"  he  said,  "these  few  weeks  have 
been  red-letter  days,  and  I  hope  they  have 
made  me  a  friend." 

And  so  the  episode  ended  with  no  harm  to 
either,  and  some  good.  The  conventional  pro- 
prieties demanded  that  the  girl  should  suffer 
shame  and  humiliation  for  her  scandalous  con- 
duct, and  that  the  man  should  have  been  dis- 


WITHOUT   A   MORAL         207 

closed  as  a  designing  rascal,  but  nothing  of 
the  sort  happened.  There  were  no  ill  conse- 
quences and  there  is  no  moral  to  be  drawn. 

Later  came  a  letter  to  Charlotte  from  the 
Chicago  friend. 


"How  could  you  bear  to  let  so  charming  a 
man  go  beyond  your  reach  ?  I  warn  you  that  I 
shall  not  let  him  return,  if  I  can  help  it." 


Still  later  came  word  that  the  two  were  to  be 
married  and  that  both  were  eternally  grateful 
to  Charlotte  for  having  brought  them  together. 

All  these  things  happened  not  this  year  or 
the  year  before.  Charlotte  Hobbs  is  Mrs. 
Harry  Wilson  now,  and  has  two  small  daugh- 
ters, concerning  whose  rearing  she  has  ideas  of 
much  strictness.  As  a  young  matron  she  holds 
rigid  views  in  regard  to  the  behavior  of  unmar- 
ried girls.  She  does  not  forget  that  she  once 
carried  on  a  clandestine  acquaintance  with  an 
unintroduced  stranger,  but  she  holds,  very 
soundly  no  doubt,  that  what  she  did  safely 
would  be  highly  improper  and  dangerous  for 
another  girl!  And  she  is  firmly  resolved  that 


208         WITHOUT   A   MORAL 

her  daughters,  when  they  come  to  young  lady- 
hood, shall  be  so  well  provided  with  masculine 
companions  of  her  own  choosing,  that  they  will 
not  need  to  go  to  the  highways  to  seek  them. 


WAS  IT  ALL  A  DREAM? 

CHARLOTTE  ANDERSON,  being 
young  and  in  good  health  and  with  few 
troubles  to  weigh  upon  her  mind,  was  what  her 
grandmother  called  a  "master  hand  to  sleep." 
When  her  head  once  touched  the  pillow  at 
night,  it  was  but  a  few  minutes  until  her  eyes 
closed  in  slumber  that  was  not  easily  disturbed 
until  after  day  had  dawned.  Consequent- 
ly she  dreamed  but  little,  or  at  least  was  seldom 
conscious  when  she  awoke  that  dreams  had  vis- 
ited her. 

One  night  in  September  was  an  exception. 
She  had  spent  a  delightful  day  in  the  country, 
but  the  drive  home  had  been  rather  wearying 
and  she  had  gone  to  bed  early,  dropping  to 
sleep  at  once,  as  usual. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  she  awoke  sud- 
denly with  a  sense  of  having  a  problem  to  solve 
and  with  a  dream  vividly  in  mind.  In  this 
dream  she  seemed  to  have  been  holding  a  pleas- 
ant and  animated  conversation,  with  Mr. 

209 


210    WAS    IT   ALL   A   DREAM? 

Charles  Wilbur,  a  well-known  lawyer  of  her 
town,  who  had  died  recently  and  with  whom, 
in  life,  she  had  had  but  the  slightest  acquaint- 
ance, though  she  had  admired  and  respected 
him.  There  was  no  suggestion  of  ghostliness 
in  this  person  seated  at  ease  on  the  veranda, 
but  all  the  time  they  talked  she  kept  saying  to 
herself,  "Why,  this  is  since  Mr.  Wilbur  died. 
I  wonder  how — I  wonder  why — "  and  awoke 
with  a  queer  sense  of  being  puzzled  by  the  mys- 
tery of  his  presence. 

The  odd  sensation  of  bewilderment  returned 
to  her  now  and  then  through  the  day,  and  she 
felt  herself  starting  nervously  when  a  chance 
caller  mentioned  his  name,  though  the  promi- 
nence of  the  man  and  his  recent  death  made 
such  a  reference  entirely  natural  and  to  be  ex- 
pected. 

"Isn't  it  too  bad,"  said  the  visitor,  "that  old 
Mr.  James  Allen  died  without  making  a  will? 
Everybody  supposed  he  would  leave  his  prop- 
erty to  faithful  Miss  Mattie,  his  stepdaugh- 
ter, who  has  looked  after  him  so  long;  but 
they  can't  find  a  line  of  writing  to  show  his 
intentions,  and  the  estate,  which  is  enough  to 
have  provided  for  her  comfortably  all  her  life, 


WAS   IT   ALL   A  DREAM?    211 

will  go  to  some  cousins  who  are  well-to-do, 
while  Miss  Mattie  won't  have  a  dollar.  She 
says  she  thought  Mr.  Wilbur  drew  up  a  will 
for  her  father,  but  he  died  first  and  no  one 
knows  a  thing  about  it.  I  don't  know  what  she 
will  do.  She's  sort  of  broken  down  from  wait- 
ing on  the  old  gentleman  and  isn't  as  young  as 
she  once  was." 

The  lady  rambled  on  and  Charlotte  caught 
herself  thinking,  grotesquely  enough,  "If  I 
had  known  this  last  night  I  might  have  asked 
him." 

Next  day  Charlotte,  in  a  crowd  on  a  corner 
down-town,  saw  for  a  moment  at  a  little  dis- 
tance ahead  of  her,  a  tall  form  so  much  like 
that  of  the  late  Mr.  Wilbur,  that  she  caught 
her  breath  while  hoping  for  a  turn  of  the  gray 
head  that  would  disclose  the  face.  But  the 
figure  vanished,  and  though  she  hastened  her 
steps  she  had  no  further  glimpse  of  him. 

She  shook  her  shoulders  impatiently  as  she 
realized  what  she  was  doing.  "How  silly  of 
me,"  she  thought.  "Am  I  losing  my  wits?" 

A  day  or  two  after,  walking  up  the  street 
near  her  home  with  a  friend,  she  saw  a  man  ap- 
proaching who  was  surely  the  image  of  the  one 


212    WAS   IT   ALL   A   DREAM? 

she  had  talked  with  in  her  dreams.  In  a  tone  of 
surprise  she  said  to  her  companion:  "What  a 
remarkable  resemblance  to  Mr.  Wilbur!" 

The  other  girl  looked  around  inquiringly. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  she  asked. 
"I  see  no  one." 

Charlotte's  eyes  had  not  been  consciously  re- 
moved from  the  approaching  figure,  but  in  a 
moment  she,  too,  saw  no  one  and  could  not 
have  told  where  the  man  had  gone.  No  one 
was  visible  on  the  square  but  a  lame  negro  car- 
rying a  basket  of  freshly  ironed  clothes.  She 
made  a  confused  reply  to  her  friend's  question 
and  each  took  her  own  way  at  the  corner. 

Until  this  moment  anything  supernatural  in 
connection  with  Mr.  Wilbur  had  not  suggested 
itself,  and  even  now  she  rejected  the  thought. 

Charlotte  was  not  superstitious  nor  espe- 
cially imaginative.  Nor  had  she  dallied  with 
the  occult  in  any  way  except  to  read  cas- 
ual articles  on  psychical  philosophy,  the  sub- 
conscious mind  and  the  like,  matters  in  which 
she  took  a  keen  intellectual  interest,  but  only 
half  accepted  as  truth. 

Even  now  she  was  ready  with  a  scientific  ex- 


WAS    IT    ALL   A   DREAM?    213 

planation  of  the  apparition  of  the  departed 
gentleman. 

"There  was  nothing  there,  of  course.  I 
don't  dream  often,  so  when  I  have  a  dream  it 
makes  an  impression  on  me.  That  talk  with 
Mr.  Wilbur  in  my  sleep  the  other  night  and 
then  the  talk  about  the  will  he  may  have  writ- 
ten, has  kept  him  in  my  subconsciousness  very 
likely,  and  I  suppose  there  is  a  picture  of  him 
before  my  mind's  eye  that  now  and  then  pro- 
jects itself  before  my  actual  sight  and  seems  to 
be  the  real  thing.  But  I  hope  I  shall  have  no 
further  experiences  of  the  kind." 

A  week  passed,  and  the  thought  of  Mr.  Wil- 
bur had  almost  gone  from  her  mind,  when  one 
night  she  awoke  suddenly,  curiously  agitated 
and  vividly  conscious  that  again  in  a  dream  she 
had  talked  with  him.  Again  she  had  been  seat- 
ed with  him  on  the  same  veranda — one  over- 
looking a  body  of  water,  but  which  was  like  no 
place  she  was  familiar  with.  As  before,  they 
had  talked  of  trivial  things  that  in  her  waking 
moments  she  could  not  remember;  but  what 
she  did  recall  was  that  in  this  dream  she  was 
aware  that  each  wished  to  say  something  to  the 


214    WAS    IT   ALL   A   DREAM? 

other  which  somehow,  because  of  the  strange 
perversity  of  things  common  in  dreams,  was 
not  said. 

"I  suppose  I  wanted  to  ask  him  about  old 
Mr.  Allen's  will,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a 
smile  in  the  dark  at  the  idea,  "but  what  could 
he  have  wanted  of  me?  I  don't  like  such 
dreams." 

The  next  night  the  dream  was  repeated  and 
followed  again  by  the  same  vague  and  linger- 
ing sense  of  dissatisfaction  over  some  earnestly 
desired  end  unachieved. 

Charlotte  began  to  be  troubled,  a  feeling 
that  was  deepened  by  another  fleeting  glimpse 
of  some  one  passing  down  the  street  who  looked 
like  Mr.  Wilbur.  Others  were  with  her,  but 
she  had  learned  caution  and  dared  not  ask  if 
they,  too,  saw  this  person  or  noted  the  resem- 
blance. A  girl  less  given  to  emotional  vagaries 
could  hardly  be  found,  or  one  more  self-con- 
trolled, but  these  experiences  were  growing  op- 
pressive. 

Out  of  a  dread  of  ridicule  she  said  nothing 
about  them,  and  out  of  her  slight  knowledge 
of  psychology  she  still  continued  to  explain 
them  to  herself  as  quite  natural  occurrences, 


WAS  IT  ALL;  A  DREAM?  215 

but  the  explanations  were  not  wholly  convinc- 
ing. 

"Can  I  be  haunted  or  am  I  growing  daft?" 
she  wondered  uneasily. 

The  next  time  the  dream  came  she  awoke  re- 
peating the  name  "JSTorris"  and  feeling  that 
the  companion  of  her  dream  was  much  pleased, 
as  if  he  had  been  teaching  her  a  lesson  which 
she  had  learned  correctly. 

"I  knew  some  Norrises  once,"  she  thought 
sleepily.  "They  lived  in  the  big  house  at  the 
head  of  Elm  Street  before  they  moved  to  Bos- 
ton." 

One  evening  as  she  came  across  from  a 
neighbor's  house  in  the  dusk,  something — was 
it  real,  was  it  a  shadow,  a  mist? — seemed  to 
flit  by  her  side.  Did  she  really  hear  a  faint 
whisper  or  was  it  the  sigh  of  the  breeze,  an  echo 
of  her  dream,  that  seemed  to  her  ears  like 
"Norris,  Norris"? 

She  hurried  into  the  house,  shivering  and 
glad  of  the  lights. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  my  nerves,  I 
wonder  if  I  ought  to  see  the  doctor,"  she 
thought  wearily. 

As  the  days  went  by,  she  grew  pale  and  thin. 


216    WAS    IT   ALL    A   DREAM? 

Busy  herself  as  she  might  by  day,  she  could 
not  escape  the  frequent  thought  of  Mr.  Wil- 
bur, a  man  with  whom  she  had  only  the  most 
formal  acquaintance  when  he  lived,  and  who, 
she  reflected,  perhaps  never  really  did  dis- 
tinguish her  identity  from  that  of  a  dozen 
other  young  women.  She  knew  that  the  more 
her  mind  dwelt  on  the  mystery,  the  worse  it 
was  for  her  nerves  and  the  more  difficult  to 
free  herself  from  the  obsession ;  but  get  rid  of 
the  restless  wonder  as  to  what  it  all  meant  she 
could  not. 

The  next  time  the  dream  came,  its  scene  had 
shifted.  The  veranda  overlooking  the  water 
had  vanished  and  she  and  her  companion  were 
seated  in  an  office  where  were  books  in  a  case 
and  on  tables,  and  a  large  iron  safe.  Again 
she  awoke  with  the  name  "Nbrris"  on  her 
tongue  and — how  she  could  not  explain,  but 
somehow — she  seemed  to  associate  the  name 
with  the  safe. 

She  began  to  wonder  vaguely  if  there  were  a 
method  and  purpose  of  some  occult  sort  in  this 
series  of  dreams  and  visions.  One  day,  sitting 
quietly  in  her  room  and  meditating  on  this,  im- 
patient with  herself  while  doing  so,  remem- 


WAS    IT   ALL   A   DREAM?    217 

brance  of  the  plight  of  poor  impoverished 
Miss  Martha,  whom  she  had  half  forgotten, 
came  to  her  anew,  and  following  it  like  a  flash, 
was  the  accompaniment,  "the  will,  the  will, 
Norris."  She  did  not  know  what  the  words 
meant  in  connection,  but  their  vividness  on  her 
mind  was  as  if  some  unseen  presence  had  spok- 
en them  or  as  if  they  were  written  on  the  wall 
before  her. 

"I  can't  endure  this,"  moaned  the  girl.  "I 
am  getting  afraid  that  my  mind  is  going.  I 
have  half  a  mind  to  go  down  to  John  Wilbur's 
office  and  ask  him  what  he  knows  about  any  as- 
sociation of  his  father  with  somebody  named 
Norris.  He  will  think  I  am  a  fool,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  I  met  him  once  long  ago,  but  I'm  sure 
he  doesn't  know  me  from  Adam ;  he  never  looks 
at  a  girl.  He's  more  dignified  than  his  father 
was  even,  but  he  can't  do  more  than  look  sur- 
prised and  scornful  and  I  reckon  I  can  stand 
that.  Anyway,  I  must  do  something." 

Of  the  dream  that  night  she  could  only  re- 
call a  repetition  of  the  words,  "the  will,  the 
will"  and  a  vision  of  Mr.  Wilbur  at  a  desk 
writing. 

She  read  everything  she  could  find  on  psy- 


218    WAS    IT   ALL   A   DREAM? 

chological  phenomena,  but  without  enlighten- 
ment on  her  particular  problem,  and  aware 
while  doing  so  that  it  would  be  better  in  her 
condition  of  mind  to  let  such  literature  alone. 
Then  she  abandoned  books  and  tried  to  aban- 
don thought  by  devoting  herself  industriously 
to  golf.  But  though  she  went  to  her  bed  each 
night  weary  with  the  wholesome  weariness  of 
healthy  active  youth,  the  obsession  remained, 
"The  will,  the  will,  the  will"  was  the  burden  of 
her  thought  when  she  awoke. 

At  last  one  day  the  girl,  with  a  shadow  of 
fear  in  her  eyes,  not  of  the  man  she  was  to  visit 
but  of  herself,  took  her  life  in  her  hands,  as  she 
afterward  expressed  it,  and  went  down  to  call 
on  Mr.  John  Wilbur,  attorney  at  law,  and 
successor  to  his  father,  whose  partner  he  had 
been. 

In  the  presence  of  two  or  three  clerks,  a 
supercilious  stenographer  and  an  inattentive 
office  boy  she  almost  lost  courage,  but  on  mak- 
ing her  wish  known  to  see  Mr.  Wilbur,  was 
ushered  into  the  inner  office  with  disconcerting 
haste,  the  gentleman  being  at  that  moment  at 
leisure. 


.WAS    IT   ALL   A   DREAM?    219 

"When  I  sat  down  facing  him,"  she  said  af- 
terward to  members  of  her  family  who  were  at 
last  taken  into  her  confidence;  "when  I  sat 
down  there  and  heard  John  Wilbur  say,  'What 
can  I  do  for  you,  Miss  Anderson?'  (it  seems  he 
had  always  remembered  me  and  I,  supposing 
he  hadn't,  had  passed  him  by  without  speak- 
ing) I  felt  like  a  condemned  criminal.  With 
his  eyes  looking  right  through  me,  I  was  sure 
he  expected  nothing  less  than  a  statement  that 
I  was  preparing  to  bring  a  breach  of  promise 
suit  against  some  one,  or  that  I  was  about  to 
confess  to  having  robbed  my  grandmother.  I 
have  always  prided  myself  on  my  self-control 
and  presence  of  mind,  but  as  I  glanced  around 
the  room  every  word  of  the  little  speech  I  had 
so  carefully  prepared  vanished  from  memory. 
It  was  the  office  I  had  seen  in  my  dream,  with 
the  safe  in  the  corner  and  the  books  opposite. 

"I  turned  to  Mr.  Wilbur  and  gasped:  *I 
saw  this  room  in  my  dream.  Have  you  got 
Mr.  James  Allen's  will  in  that  safe?* 

"He  must  have  thought  I  was  crazy,  for 
after  a  look  of  surprise,  he  answered  soothing- 
ly, as  he  would  to  a  child: 


220    WAS    IT   ALL    A   DREAM? 

"  'So  far  as  I  know,  Mr.  Allen  left  no  will, 
Miss  Anderson.' 

"I  was  so  excited  by  this  time  that  I  forgot 
to  be  afraid  of  him,  and  I  told  him  the  story  as 
fast  as  my  tongue  could  tell  it — all  about  the 
dreams,  the  times  I  had  seen  his  father;  that 
is,  somebody  who  looked  just  like  his  father; 
all  about  the  haunting  sense  that  he  wanted  to 
tell  me  something,  possibly  about  the  missing 
Allen  will.  Oddly  enough,  the  name  Norris 
had  for  a  moment  been  forgotten  and  I  did  not 
mention  it. 

"It  was  a  relief  to  tell  it  all,  I  had  kept  it 
to  myself  so  long ;  but  somehow,  in  broad  day- 
light and  in  putting  the  thing  into  words  it 
seemed  vague  and  foolish  and  far  away,  and  I 
wondered  that  such  experiences  could  have 
troubled  me  and  what  Mr.  Wilbur  thought  of 
me.  He  was  exceedingly  nice,  I  must  say.  I 
wouldn't  have  dreamed  he  could  be  so  pleas- 
ant. 

"He  never  smiled  even  in  his  eyes — I  should 
have  screamed  if  he  had — and  when  I  got 
through  he  said  it  was  strange,  very  strange. 
He  said  he  had  read  a  good  deal  on  occult  ques- 


WAS   IT  ALL  A  DREAM?    221 

tions  and  psychological  mysteries,  but  had 
never  had  an  experience  like  mine.  He  was 
inclined  to  think,  though,  that  I  had  been  nerv- 
ous and  overwrought,  and  having  my  sympa- 
thies roused  about  the  will  and  Miss  Martha's 
distress,  I  had  drifted  into  a  sort  of  morbid 
condition,  and  he  was  glad  I  had  decided  to 
come  to  him  with  the  story,  for  now  my  mind 
would  probably  be  quieted  and  I  would  have 
no  more  trouble. 

"Then  he  said  the  office  had  been  searched 
high  and  low  for  a  possible  will  of  Mr.  Allen's, 
but  none  could  be  found;  there  was  no  record 
on  his  father's  books  that  he  had  written  one 
and  he,  John,  believed  that  none  had  ever  been 
drawn. 

"Then  he  opened  the  safe  and  showed  me 
how  carefully  everything  was  arranged  and  la- 
beled and  how  unlikely  it  was  that  anything 
could  be  lost  or  mislaid.  They  had  gone 
through  the  drawers  and  pigeonholes,  though, 
just  the  same,  he  said.  His  father  was  a  very 
methodical  man,  too,  and  was  accustomed  to 
enter  every  item  of  business  in  a  book,  but 
there  was  nowhere  a  mention  of  this  will. 


222    WAS    IT   ALL   A   DREAM? 

"He  pulled  out  this  and  that  drawer  as  he 
talked,  just  to  show  the  systematic  arrange- 
ment, and  there  in  one,  lying  right  on  top,  was 
a  big  envelope  labeled  in  large  printed  letters 
'Norris'. 

"I  fairly  screamed,  'Oh,  there  it  is,'  and 
snatched  at  the  papers.  He  pushed  my  hand 
away,  almost  rudely  I  have  to  confess,  and  said 
with  an  offended,  rather  stiff  air:  'Those  are 
private  papers  belonging  to  the  old  Norris  es- 
tate.' 

"  'Let  me  look  in  that  drawer  one  minute,'  I 
cried,  and  I  fairly  shoved  him  out  of  my  way 
while  I  pulled  the  drawer  out  and  set  it  on  the 
table. 

"He  looked  at  me  really  horrified,  but  I  did 
not  care.  I  opened  one  formidable-looking 
document  after  another  until  I  had  seen  them 
all — and  among  them  was  no  Allen  will! 

"All  at  once,  at  that  moment  it  came  over  me 
in  a  most  crushing  way  what  a  silly,  silly  crea- 
ture I  had  been,  and  as  I  gathered  the  papers 
up  to  replace  them  I  could  not  lift  my  eyes  to 
Mr.  Wilbur's  face. 

"Perhaps  to  relieve  my  embarrassment,  he 
said:  'Don't  you  remember  the  Norrises?  They 


tWAS    IT    ALL   A   DREAM?    223 

used  to  live  here,  but  are  now  living  in  Boston. 
I  was  there  lately.' 

"  'Have  they  a  house  with  a  veranda  over- 
looking the  water?'  I  asked,  hardly  thinking  of 
what  I  was  saying,  I  was  so  anxious  to  get 
away  with  a  little  show  of  self-respect. 

"  'Yes,'  he  said,  looking  surprised. 

"  "Then  I  saw  it  in  my  dream,'  I  said,  still 
fumbling  with  the  documents  and  not  helping 
my  self-respect  by  this  further  mention  of  my 
experiences. 

"There  was  a  stiff  brown  paper  in  the  bot- 
tom of  the  drawer  as  a  sort  of  lining,  and  as  I 
put  my  hand  in  mechanically  to  smooth  down 
a  fold,  I  felt  something  under  it.  I  lifted  the 
paper  and  there  was  a  folded  document  marked 
on  the  back,  'Last  will  and  testament  of  James 
Allen.' 

"I  handed  it  to  Mr.  John  Wilbur  and  we 
stood  staring  at  each  other  without  a  word. 

"Then  I  could  not  help  it,  I  had  never  done 
such  a  thing  in  my  life  in  a  public  place,  but  I 
could  stand  no  more,  and  I  put  my  head  down 
on  the  desk  in  that  business  office  and  cried  and 
cried  and  cried. 

"What  happened  then?     Oh,  nothing,  ex- 


224    WAS    IT   ALL   A   DREAM? 

cept  that  Mr.  John  Wilbur  telephoned  for  his 
automobile  and  took  me  home.  He  said  that  I 
was  not  in  a  state  to  go  home  in  the  street-cars. 
I  suppose  I  must  have  been  a  sight.  We  drove 
a  long  way  around.  He  said  the  country  air 
would  be  good  for  me.  He  is  not  at  all  such  a 
man  as  I  thought  he  was,  and  is  really  quite 
human.  But  now  that  it's  all  over  I  hope  old 
Mr.  Wilbur  will  be  at  peace  and  let  me  be  so.'* 

A  year  later  Charlotte  and  her  husband  were 
talking  the  affair  over — a  thing  they  seldom 
did,  the  subject  being  one  of  which  they  were  a 
little  afraid. 

"No,  John,  I  have  never  dreamed  of  your 
father  since  the  day  the  will  was  found.  I 
should  really  have  liked  to  see  him  once  after- 
ward to  know  if  he  were  pleased.  But  there's 
one  thing  I  never  could  understand,  and  that 
is,  why  I  should  have  been  the  one  to  have  that 
experience  and  find  the  will  rather  than  you 
or  Miss  Mattie  or  some  one  more  closely  inter- 
ested than  I." 

"That's  no  mystery  to  me,  my  dear.  If 
father  had  anything  to  do  with  those  dreams, 
he  had  another  purpose  in  addition  to  the  find- 


WAS    IT   ALE   A  DREAM?    225 

ing  of  the  will.  He  used  to  say  he  meant  to 
find  a  wife  for  me,  and  I'm  sure  no  one  could 
have  used  better  judgment." 

At  which  Charlotte  laughed,  for  the  shadow 
of  the  dream  had  long  passed. 


THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 

MISS  WHITE  was  having  her  hair 
shampooed,  and  the  woman  who  was 
performing  the  service  was  indulging  in  a 
monologue,  after  the  manner  of  her  kind. 

"Your  hair's  coming  out  perfectly  dread- 
ful, honey.  You'd  better  let  me  treat  your 
scalp.  I  have  a  splendid  tonic;  always  carry 
a  bottle  with  me.  Think  you  won't  to-day? 
No?  All  right,  dear;  some  other  time  you'll 
feel  more  like  it. 

"As  I  was  saying,  I  had  a  perfectly  awful 
time  last  fall  after  I  sprained  my  wrist.  Busi- 
ness hadn't  been  very  good  before  that  be- 
cause so  many  of  my  customers — I  don't  work 
for  none  but  high-toned  ladies,  you  know — 
didn't  come  back  from  their  summer  trips  till 
so  late  that  I'd  hardly  got  to  work  when  I 
got  that  sprain.  I  had  to  go  in  debt  at  the 
grocery  and  the  rent  got  behind  and  every- 
thing went  wrong,  and  the  world  looked 

226 


ETERNAL    FEMININE         227 

purty  black.  I  tell  you,  Miss  White,  if  I'd 
had  any  decent  clothes  along  then  I'd  a  killed 
myself;  I  would  so." 

Miss  White,  being  feminine,  comprehended 
perfectly  and  needed  no  explanation  of  this 
remarkable  statement,  but  she  received  one. 

"You  know,  I  just  couldn't  bear  the  idea 
of  people  coming  in  and  finding  me  in  my 
rags;  they  were  just  actually  rags.  And 
those  Jones  women  down  below  me — you 
don't  know  them,  though — they  would  talk 
so.  And  you'd  hate,  even  if  you  were  dead, 
to  have  everybody  know  you  didn't  have  a 
dud  fit  to  be  laid  out  in. 

"I've  always  believed  in  taking  a  little 
thought  about  things  o'  that  kind.  It's  always 
seemed  to  me  that  if  women  who  jump  in 
the  river  would  think  twice,  they'd  choose 
some  other  way.  If  they'd  just  think  how 
they'll  look  when  they're  hauled  out — all  drag- 
gled and  horrid!  Every  woman  knows  that 
she's  at  her  very  worst  with  her  hair  wet  and 
stringy.  You  can  see  that  for  yourself  there 
in  the  glass.  I  hold  that  a  woman  ought  always 
to  look  as  well  as  she  can  when  she's  in  public, 
and  there  ain't  anything  much  more  public 


228        ETERNAL   FEMININE 

than  being  pulled  out  of  the  river  or  the  canal, 
dead  or  alive. 

"Your  hair's  getting  mighty  thin  on  top, 
honey.  You'll  have  to  be  getting  a  transfor- 
mation right  soon;  not  a  wig,  you  know,  but 
sort  of  a  reinforcement  to  your  own  hair — or 
maybe  you'd  like  this  new  swirled  arrange- 
ment. A  couple  o'  long  braids  pinned  on  at 
the  back  and  brought  around  on  the  top,  kind 
o'  turban-like,  will  cover  them  thin  places  just 
lovely.  Braids  cost  a  lot  if  you  get  the  real 
fine  hair,  as,  of  course,  you'd  want.  With  fash- 
ions in  hair  changing  so,  it's  hard  to  keep  up 
unless  youVe  got  a  lot  o'  money.  Me,  I  just 
go  to  the  department  store  and  get  their  goods. 
Of  course  department  store  hair  isn't  real  hu- 
man hair — some  of  it  they  say's  from  China- 
men— but  the  general  effect  when  it's  on  is 
the  same.  And  a  woman  these  days  who  thinks 
anything  of  herself  just  has  to  keep  up  with 
the  style  in  hair  same  as  in  hats.  For  the  mat- 
ter of  that,  you  can't  get  hats  unless  you  have 
hair  on  to  fit  'em. 

"Ain't  the  hats  be-utiful  this  spring — per- 
fect dreams?  I  seen  one  in  a  window  down- 
town this  morning  that  just  set  my  heart  go- 


ETERNAL    FEMININE         229 

ing,  but,  law!  it  was  miles  out  o'  my  reach.  I 
don't  s'pose  you've  ever  known  what  it  was, 
Miss  White,  to  just  wish  and  wish  and  wish 
for  clothes  you  couldn't  get.  I've  known  a  lot 
of  it.  Fact  is,  I  never  did  have  in  all  my  life 
all  the  clothes  at  one  time  that  properly  go  to- 
gether. If  I  had  the  dress,  I  didn't  have  the 
hat,  or  if  I  had  the  hat  my  shoes  were  shabby 
or  I  had  no  gloves  or  no  coat.  Oh,  it's  real 
heart-rendering!  Even  when  I  was  married 
I  had  to  borrow  my  sister's  wedding  dress; 
she  was  married  the  year  before.  Afterwards 
I  never  caught  up.  I  s'posed  that  when  a  girl 
was  married  clothes  came  as  a  matter  of  course, 
but  I  was  young  and  green.  Jim  meant  well, 
but  he  didn't  really  understand  what  it  takes  to 
make  a  woman  happy,  and,  anyway,  you  can't 
make  much  of  a  splurge  on  twelve  dollars  a 
week,  with  victuals  to  buy  and  rent  to  pay  and 
everything  high  as  it  was  even  then,  ten  years 
ago.  And  when  he  died  four  years  ago — it 
was  sudden,  he  fell  off  a  roof — there  was  all 
the  expenses  of  the  funeral  and  I've  only  just 
lately  got  them  paid  off.  When  I  finally  had 
them  paid,  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  get  me 
some  decent  things  to  wear  with  the  first  money 


230        ETERNAL    FEMININE 

I  could  save ;  but  then  came  that  sprained  wrist 
and  a  long  spell  of  doing  nothing  and  getting 
in  debt,  and  no  clothes  in  sight  yet.  It's  hard 
luck.  Oh,  deary,  dearl 

"You're  getting  pretty  gray,  honey.  Hadn't 
you  better  let  me  stain  your  hair?  I  have  a 
splendid  stain.  Can  make  any  shade  you 
want — dark  brown  like  it  used  to  be,  or  light- 
er, if  you  like.  And  it  will  stay,  oh,  a  long 
time  with  just  a  little  touching  up. 

"Think  not?  A  great  many  ladies  do. 
You'd  be  surprised.  Haven't  you  noticed  how 
many  of  your  friends  that  are  getting  along 
in  years  haven't  a  gray  hair  to  be  seen?  Well, 
that's  because  the  gray  hair's  been  doctored. 
The  head  nurse  over  at  St.  Bones's  Hospital 
says  to  me  one  day,  'Emmy,'  says  she,  'three 
women  out  of  five  that  you  meet  on  the  street 
are  going  around  without  their  appendixes  or 
with  a  slice  of  their  liver  gone  or  some  other 
part  of  the  works  that  the  Lord  gave  them, 
missing.'  It's  the  same  with  hair.  Mor'n  half 
the  women  you  see  are  wearing  hair  that  ain't 
the  color  they  were  born  to. 

"And  I'm  for  it,  especially  when  it  hides 
gray  hair.  For  my  part,  I  can't  see  why  it 


ETERNAL    FEMININE         231 

ain't  just  as  lawful  to  have  young-looking  hair 
as  young-looking  teeth.  And  there's  this 
about  it,  too,  if  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so, 
Miss  White:  single  women  oughtn't  never  to 
let  their  hair  get  gray  as  long  as  they're  hop- 
ing. It's  a  great  mistake.  I've  noticed  that. 
I  don't  know  why  it  is  unless  it's  because  a  man 
always  thinks  an  old  ma — that  is,  a  single  lady, 
is  older  than  she  is.  A  widow,  now,  is  just  as 
old  as  she  chooses  to  be,  and  he  don't  go  prying 
into  the  family  records  with  her.  Of  course  I 
don't  suppose  your  mind's  on  such  things,  but 
lots  o'  ladies  never  do  give  up,  and  it's  an  item 
it's  just  as  well  to  know. 

"There  1  Your  hair  looks  lovely,  deary. 
Now,  shan't  I  put  just  the  teentiest  bit  o'  color 
on  your  cheeks?  You're  pale,  and  the  least 
pink  would  brighten  you  up  wonderful. 
You'll  find  that  most  o'  the  ladies  at  the  party 
have  been  touched  up.  Not  a  smidgin— no? 
Nor  a  mite  o'  the  red  lip  salve?  I've  got  some 
that  nobody  ever  could  tell  it  wasn't  natural. 
Not  that,  either?  Well,  some  are  set  against 
those  things.  I  used  to  be,  but  I've  changed. 
Maybe  you'll  come  around  some  day.  So  many 
do.  Good-by.  Have  a  good  time." 


232        ETERNAL   FEMININE 

Miss  White  had  known  this  woman  but  a 
few  months,  but  on  the  first  interview  had 
been  addressed  by  her  as  "honey"  and  "dear". 
The  terms  were  not  meant  as  impertinence  or 
familiarity,  but  merely  to  show  good  feeling, 
and  it  would  have  wounded  the  good  soul's 
sensibilities  deeply  to  have  resented  them. 

Some  time  later  she  called  again  on  her 
patron,  but  this  time  not  to  render  profes- 
sional service.  She  was  a  resplendent  being  on 
this  occasion.  A  suit  of  bright  brown,  verg- 
ing on  yellow,  matched  very  well  with  the  new 
shade  of  her  hair.  Her  short  skirt  showed  new 
shoes  with  the  highest  of  heels  and  a  consider- 
able portion  of  her  embroidered  stockings.  An 
enormous  hat  loaded  with  flowers,  an  immense 
bunch  of  artificial  violets  pinned  to  her  gown, 
white  gloves,  a  lorgnette  with  a  showy  chain 
and  a  silver  mesh  purse  were  features  of  her 
apparel.  Her  face  beamed  joyously. 

"I've  called,  Miss  White,  to  tell  you  that 
I'm  going  out  of  business  and  to  recommend 
another  lady  in  my  place  that  I  think'll  suit 
you.  The  fact  is,  I'm  going  to  be  married. 
Ain't  you  surprised?  I  can  hardly  believe  it 
myself.  And  it  all  come  about  on  account  of 


ETERNAL    FEMININE         233 

these  clothes  and  some  others  I've  got.  You 
see,  Uncle  George  died  and  left  some  money 
that  had  to  be  divided  among  his  nephews  and 
nieces,  and  my  share  was  five  hundred  dollars. 
Maybe  you'll  say  that  the  sensible  thing  was  to 
put  it  in  the  bank  or  buy  a  piece  of  ground 
with  it  or  something,  but  I  didn't  think  so.  I 
made  up  my  mind  that  for  once  in  my  life  I'd 
have  some  clothes,  if  I  had  to  blow  in  the  whole 
bunch  of  money  to  get  them,  so  I've  been  a- 
blowing  it.  And  they've  paid.  I  knew  they 
would.  To  tell  the  truth,  Miss  White,  I've 
prayed  for  clothes  lots  of  times,  though  I  never 
expected  the  Lord  to  pay  any  attention.  But 
I  look  upon  this  money  of  Uncle  George's  as 
an  answer  to  prayer. 

"And  now  that  it's  all  settled,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  that  I  prayed  that  Tom  Jackson 
would  ask  me  to  marry  him.  When  the  money 
came  that  would  get  clothes  I  knew  that  my 
chance  had  come.  It  takes  clothes  to  make 
men  take  notice.  While  I  was  so  shabby,  he 
didn't  pay  no  special  attention  to  me,  though 
I've  known  him  a  long  time  and  he  was  always 
polite.  But  when  a  man  takes  a  woman  out  to 
give  her  a  good  time  he  wants  her  to  be  a 


234         ETERNAL    FEMININE 

credit  to  him,  and  I  wouldn't  have  went  with 
him  if  he'd  'a'  asked  me  when  I  had  only  my 
old  duds.  The  truth  is,  that  time  I  was  so 
blue  and  thought  of  killing  myself  that  I  told 
you  about,  the  misery  was  partly  because  I 
had  no  chance  with  Tom. 

"But  he  came  around  right  quick  when  I  got 
these  things.  Maybe  you  think  they're  pretty 
gay,  but  there's  no  call  for  black  or  even  half 
mourning  on  account  of  Uncle  George,  for  he 
never  intended  us  to  have  the  money.  He  and 
pa  never  got  along,  and  he  told  pa  not  a  cent 
of  his  savings  should  ever  go  to  chick  or  child 
of  his.  He  meant  to  make  a  will  and  leave  it 
to  the  church,  but  he  put  it  off  too  long,  and 
I'm  real  thankful. 

"And,  oh,  Miss  White,  I've  got  some  of  the 
prettiest  clothes!  I'd  never  owned  a  silk  petti- 
coat in  my  life  and  now  I've  got  two.  And 
I've  always  wanted  a  silk  house  gown  with  a 
train  and  I've  got  that — it'll  be  a  part  of  my 
trousseau.  And  I'm  laying  in  a  stock  of  the 
loveliest  lingerie — embroidery  and  lace  trim- 
mings all  run  with  ribbons;  you  ought  to 
see  it ! 

"Clothes  are  surely  a  great  comfort,  Miss 


ETERNAL    FEMININE         235 

White — even  more  than  I  thought  they'd  be. 
I'm  happier  than  I  ever  expected  to  be  in  this 
world.  Partly  on  account  of  Tom,  of  course, 
but  I  wouldn't  have  had  Tom  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  clothes,  and  so  I  set  store  by  them.  The 
Lord  is  sure  good  sometimes,  ain't  He,  Miss 
White  ?  I  ain't  never  been  what  you'd  call  re- 
ligious, but  with  my  prayers  answered  so  it 
doesn't  seem  as  if  I  could  ever  be  careless 
about  such  things  any  more.  Ain't  it  beautiful 
weather?  Seems  like  I  never  in  my  life  saw 
such  blue  skies  and  bright  sunshine.  Good- 
by,  Miss  White,  and  good  luck  to  you." 

Miss  White  smiled,  but  not  in  ridicule,  as 
the  radiant  guest  departed.  She  was  glad  of 
the  woman's  happiness,  and  she  wondered  if 
her  own  longings,  so  different  from  those  of 
the  visitor,  for  whose  fulfilment  she  also 
prayed  in  secret,  were  really  less  childish  in  the 
eyes  of  the  Being  above.  She  recalled  the  pic- 
ture painted  by  Mrs.  Browning  of  people 
prostrate  in  a  Florentine  chapel,  praying  each 
one,  with  all  his  soul,  that  his  lottery  ticket 
would  draw  the  grand  prize.  "Poor  blind 
souls,  that  writhe  toward  heaven  along  the 
devil's  trail."  And  yet,  the  poet  writes:  "We 


236         ETERNAL    FEMININE 

who  make  excuses  for  the  rest,  we  do  it  in  our 
measure." 

Then  Miss  White  smiled  again,  remember- 
ing the  classic  utterance  of  the  discerning  soul, 
who  declared  that  to  be  well  dressed  gives  a 
peace  beyond  the  power  of  religion  to  convey. 
This  was  the  peace  her  hairdresser  friend  was 
enjoying  now.  And  she  knew  that  if  this 
friend  had  been  more  articulate  she  mjght 
have  written  and  would  at  least  devoutly  sub- 
scribe to  the  sentiment  of  these  lines  by  a  news- 
paper versifier — of  course  a  woman: 

"Thank  God  for  clothes! 

Not  that  they  shield  us  from  the  winter  rude, 

Not  that  they  foster  social  rectitude 

And  cloak  deficiencies — for  none  of  those; 

But  for  the  warm  uplift  that  furbelows 

Can  kindle  in  this  sorry  human  clay — 

The  glory  and  the  strut  of  fine  array; 

Thank  God  for  clothes!" 


AN  EVER-PRESENT  HELP 

THE  time  had  come  for  them  to  go.  The 
funeral  was  over;  the  poor  bits  of  fur- 
niture had  been  sold  to  the  neighbors,  who 
would  come  presently  and  take  them  away; 
the  boy's  own  possessions,  his  clothing  and  a 
few  pitiful  little  remembrances  of  his  mother 
that  he  had  gathered  up,  were  packed  in  an  old 
shiny  oilcloth  satchel  which  had  been  his  fa- 
ther's. Uncle  George  was  in  haste  to  get  back 
to  his  home,  and  there  was  really  no  reason  for 
remaining  longer. 

Little  John  Spaulding  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  the  three-room  house  that  had  been  his 
home  all  the  ten  years  of  his  life,  dimly  realiz- 
ing that  the  days  of  his  care-free  childhood 
were  ended,  and  feeling  curiously  old  and  help- 
less. His  eyes  ached  with  the  tears  he  had 
shed,  and  his  face  was  flushed  and  swollen 
from  weeping.  His  father,  a  tenant  on  the  big 
farm,  had  been  killed  six  months  before  by  a 
fall  from  a  barn  roof.  His  mother,  always 

237 


238       EVER-PRESENT    HELP 

fragile,  had  faded  out  of  life  after  her  hus- 
band's death,  and  they  had  buried  her  to-day. 

She  had  always  taught  her  son  to  be  "good", 
and  when  she  found  that  she  must  leave  him 
she  had  enjoined  upon  him  to  say  his  prayers 
every  day  as  he  had  done  from  boyhood.  God 
would  be  an  ever-present  help,  she  said. 

He  thought  of  this  as  he  stood  there  and 
suddenly  he  walked  down  among  the  corn 
rows  in  the  great  forty-acre  field,  whose  corner 
came  close  to  the  house.  The  stalks  reached 
far  above  his  head,  and  the  rustling  leaves 
stretched  out  over  him.  The  hot  August  sun- 
shine sifted  through  the  heavy  foliage,  making 
a  pale  green  light.  He  knelt  down  upon  the 
warm  earth  between  two  rows. 

"Oh,  God,"  he  prayed,  "won't  you  please 
take  care  of  me  now?  I  have  no  one  else,  you 
know." 

There  was  no  sound  but  the  whispering 
among  the  corn  blades,  but  it  seemed  as  if 
Some  One  might  be  trying  to  speak  to  him, 
and  he  felt  strangely  comforted. 

Then  Uncle  George  called  impatiently,  and 
he  went  out  from  the  old  home  to  begin  a  new 
life. 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP,        239 

Uncle  George  considered  himself  a  reli- 
gious man.  He  was  a  member  in  good  standing 
of  an  evangelical  church ;  he  attended  services 
every  Sunday,  and  required  the  members  of 
his  household  to  do  the  same.  He  asked  a 
blessing  over  every  meal,  and  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings he  had  family  prayers. 

But  his  young  nephew,  John,  soon  ceased 
to  follow  his  mother's  last  injunction.  Indeed, 
there  is  reason  to  believe  that  the  prayer  offered 
under  the  shadow  of  the  corn,  in  the  stress  of 
grief,  was  his  last  youthful  petition  to  Heaven. 

Childish  impressions  fade  early  and  doubt- 
less he  forgot  his  mother's  words.  Besides, 
the  prayers  he  heard  now  did  not  interest  him 
or  encourage  him  in  devout  practises.  They 
seemed  to  be  addressed  to  no  one  in  particular, 
and  he  had  a  fancy  on  Sundays  that  the 
preacher's  appeals  wandered  about  under  the 
church  roof  without  getting  anywhere.  More- 
over, when  he  thought  about  it,  he  didn't  see 
any  special  need  of  asking  for  help  from  God 
when  he  could  take  care  of  himself.  And  he 
could,  and  did  take  care. 

He  learned  early  to  rely  upon  himself.    His 
square  chin,  his  firm  lips  and  steady  eyes  were 


240       EVER-PRESENT    HELP 

not  for  nothing.  They  meant  possession  of  the 
traits  that  cause  boy  and  man  to  achieve  what 
they  undertake.  He  worked  his  way  through 
the  schools  as  far  as  he  cared  to  go,  then  set 
about  making  his  fortune. 

It  was  not  an  especial  love  for  money  that 
made  him  so  energetic  in  this  pursuit.  The 
secret  of  his  zeal  was  that  which  explains  the 
activity  of  most  American  men — the  joy  of 
striving  and  of  succeeding,  rather  than  eager- 
ness for  the  prize. 

He  strove  arduously.  Circumstances  made 
him  acquainted  with  mining  business  in  the 
West.  He  became  an  expert  and  was  em- 
ployed by  a  great  corporation.  He  made  in- 
vestments for  himself,  and  his  "luck"  became 
proverbial  among  those  who  knew  him;  but, 
like  most  luck  in  such  cases,  it  was  due  to  his 
knowledge  of  his  business  and  to  his  shrewd 
judgment. 

'By  the  time  he  was  thirty-six  years  old  he 
had  accumulated  a  fortune — not  a  vast  one, 
but  enough  to  satisfy  any  reasonable  man. 
And  then  he  suddenly  realized  that  all  has 
achievements  were  as  nothing  if  he  could  not 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP        241 

win  a  greater  prize,  one  more  desperately  de- 
sired than  money  had  ever  been. 

He  had  never  given  much  heed  to  women. 
They  had  not  figured  seriously  in  his  plan  of 
life.  His  years  of  constant  travel,  his  con- 
tinual flitting  from  East  to  West,  from  moun- 
tain to  metropolis  and  back  again,  would  have 
cut  him  off  from  social  enjoyments  had  he 
been  inclined  to  them ;  but  he  was  too  busy  to 
care  for  such  things,  or  to  do  more  than  treat 
with  civility  the  wives  and  daughters  of  his 
associates  on  his  casual  meetings  with  them. 

He  fully  intended  to  marry  some  day.  In 
the  background  of  his  mind  was  a  vision  of 
domestic  bliss  such  as  all  men  cherish.  He  had 
even  a  vague  picture  of  the  woman  who  was  to 
share  his  home  life — a  gentle  madonna-like 
creature  with  no  will  but  his. 

Then,  unexpectedly,  before  he  had  reached 
the  time  when  mere  loneliness  made  him  im- 
patient of  his  bachelorhood,  he  met  the  one 
woman  for  him  of  all  the  world.  Rose  Haynes 
was  the  daughter  of  a  business  acquaintance, 
and  he  fell  in  with  her  on  a  railway  journey. 
She  was  no  meek  madonna,  but  a  blooming, 


242        EVER-PRESENT    HELP, 

high-spirited  wilful  maid,  full  of  the  zest  of 
life,  fond  of  the  gaieties  of  youth  and  not 
ready  to  yield  her  liberty  to  any  lover. 

John  Spaulding  did  not  know  why  he 
wanted  this  girl  for  his  wife ;  he  simply  knew 
that  only  through  her  could  life  offer  him  hap- 
piness, and  that,  having  known  her,  all  other 
women  were  as  shadows. 

He  had  always  had  his  own  way  and  he 
meant  to  have  it  now.  His  wooing  was  ardent 
and  his  purpose  unmistakable  from  the  start. 
Indeed,  he  made  his  intentions  plain  to  her 
father  in  the  beginning.  That  gentleman  re- 
ceived the  information  with  the  air  of  detach- 
ment common  to  American  fathers. 

"My  daughter  must  please  herself  when 
she  marries,"  he  said.  "It's  her  affair.  I  have 
no  objection  to  you  as  a  son-in-law,  but  she 
may  find  your  years  an  impediment — she  is 
only  twenty-three.  And  you  know  your  money 
will  cut  no  figure  with  her.  She  doesn't  need 
to  consider  that." 

Something  about  him,  his  air  of  masterful 
purpose,  his  manly  self-confidence,  his  earnest- 
ness, his  fervor  perhaps,  caught  the  girl's 
fancy.  She  could  not  treat  him  lightly  as  she 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP        243 

did  Her  other  admirers,  or  laugh  at  his  preten- 
sions; he  would  not  he  ignored  or  put  aside. 
She  did  not  yield  easily,  but  at  the  end  of  three 
months  he  felt  the  barriers  of  girlish  resistance 
giving  away,  and  at  last  he  won  half  a  promise. 

"I  think  I  might  be  happy  with  you  forever 
after,  as  the  story  books  say,"  she  told  him, 
"but  I  am  not  sure.  You  are  too  urgent,  you 
are  too  overwhelming.  I  must  have  a  little 
more  time." 

John  Spaulding  laughed  to  himself  in  tri- 
umph. He  did  not  mind  her  hesitation  or  re- 
sistance. He  was  used  to  overcoming  difficul- 
ties and  enjoyed  the  effort.  Had  he  not  always 
succeeded?  He  would  succeed  in  this.  Noth- 
ing should  interfere. 

Then  an  obstacle  presented  itself  that  he 
had  not  counted  on.  A  new  lover  whom  he 
could  not  drive  away  or  ignore  came  to  the 
front.  Other  young  men  who  had  fluttered 
about  his  Rose  of  the  World  he  had  driven 
away  one  by  one  through  his  sheer  air  of  confi- 
dence and  proprietorship;  but  this  youth  dis- 
regarded him. 

Clark  Harden  was  strikingly  handsome; 
even  Spaulding  had  to  admit  that.  It  was  the 


244       EVER-PRESENT    HELP 

beauty  of  athletic  figure,  regular  features  and 
a  dashing  air — the  sort  of  comeliness  that  at- 
tracts women,  the  older  man  grudgingly  ad- 
mitted. He  was  animated  and  lightly  enter- 
taining; he  danced  and  sang  and  rode  and  was 
ready  for  every  gaiety;  he  had  all  the  social 
airs  and  graces  that  come  from  a  life  spent 
among  people  with  whom  form  and  ceremony 
count  for  much.  Above  all,  he  had  the  unri- 
valed charm  of  youth. 

Spaulding  did  not  belittle  his  rival's  attrac- 
tions nor  disguise  from  himself  that  he  was  a 
rival,  nor  hide  from  himself  the  fact  that  Rose 
Haynes  was  undeniably  pleased  with  him.  To 
himself,  as  one  accustomed  through  his  busi- 
ness training  to  study  the  characters  of  men, 
was  discernible  in  the  handsome  features  a 
weakness  and  sensuousness  that  did  not  prom- 
ise well  for  the  young  man's  future  or  for  the 
peace  of  the  woman  who  should  unite  her  fate 
with  his.  He  knew  nothing  to  Marden's  per- 
sonal discredit,  but  he  did  know  the  breed,  as 
he  scornfully  expressed  it,  on  both  sides  of  the 
family — the  Clarks  and  the  Hardens — and  he 
knew  little  good  of  them.  They  were  crafty 
and  selfish  and  cold-blooded,  and  in  business 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP        245 

the  kind  of  men  it  was  not  safe  to  trust  unre- 
servedly. The  boy's  father  had  been  a  rich 
man  and  still  passed  as  such,  but  Spaulding 
had  reason  to  believe  that  much  of  his  fortune 
had  recently  been  lost  in  speculation;  in  which 
case,  so  went  the  jealous  lover's  suspicious 
thought,  the  son's  eager  wooing  of  Miss 
Haynes  might  have  a  motive  other  than  that 
of  mere  personal  admiration. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Spaulding  was 
utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.  He  was  deep- 
ly and  passionately  in  love;  how  deeply  and 
desperately  he  had  not  guessed  until  the  possi- 
bility that  he  might  lose  the  object  of  his 
heart's  desire  seriously  presented  itself.  He 
felt  the  impulse  of  his  far-off  savage  ancestors 
and  would  have  liked  to  snatch  the  girl  up  by 
force  and  carry  her  beyond  the  reach  of  all 
rivals ;  but  this  was  a  conventional  age  and  he 
must  speak  her  softly  and  put  on  the  mask  of 
civility  even  to  his  rival. 

But  he  was  fiercely  jealous  and  this  feeling 
he  could  not  wholly  conceal. 

"Do  you  care  for  that  fellow?"  he  demanded 
of  her  one  day,  when  he  had  her  for  a  moment 
to  himself. 


246        EVER-PRESENT    HELP 

"I  like  him,  yes,"  she  replied. 

"I  do  not  mean  'like' ;  do  you  love  him  well 
enough  to  marry  him,  or  do  you  love  me?  I 
have  a  right  to  know." 

"You  have  no  right  to  ask  that  question. 
But  I  will  tell  you  that  I  don't  know — I  don't 
know  which  I  care  for  more.  You  may  think 
me  foolish  and  light-minded,  and  perhaps  I 
am,  but  I  tell  you  I  don't  know.  I  always 
thought  a  girl  must  be  sure  beyond  doubt,  be- 
yond everything,  when  she  cared  for  a  man, 
but — well,  you  had  better  go  away  and  think 
no  more  about  me." 

"I  will  wait  for  you,  Rose,"  he  said,  humbled 
before  her  frankness  and  simplicity.  "I  will 
wait  and  hope." 

He  could  not  tell  her  that  Clark  Harden 
was  unworthy  of  her,  would  not  make  her 
happy.  That  would  not  be  manly,  and  besides 
he  had  no  proof  to  support  his  conviction.  Nor 
could  he  go  to  her  father  and  tell  him  he  be- 
lieved Harden  to  be  a  fortune  hunter.  If  he 
knew,  absolutely  knew,  anything  in  the  young 
man's  record  to  prove  him  unfit  he  might,  for 
the  girl's  sake,  and  leaving  himself  out  of  the 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP        247 

question —     But  no,  he  could  not  fight  that 
way. 

He  was  a  man  of  force,  of  action,  a  man 
accustomed  to  direct  and  persistent  effort,  and 
he  had  here  reached  a  point  where  no  action 
was  possible.  He  could  only  stand  passive  and 
watch  the  course  of  fate,  and  doing  this  he 
found  to  be  the  most  terrible  ordeal  of  his  life. 
He  grew  thin  and  hollow-eyed  and  felt  an 
agonized  sense  of  helplessness. 

All  this  uncertainty,  this  suspense  and  impa- 
tience were  of  yesterday.  To-day  he  faced  a 
different  situation  and  he  was  trying  to  adjust 
himself  to  it.  In  the  morning  Rose  had  gone 
driving  with  young  Marden.  The  young  man 
had  a  new  horse  whose  paces  he  wished  to  show. 
It  was  a  spirited  animal  with  a  wicked  expres- 
sion in  its  eye  and  the  stablemen  shook  their 
heads  over  it  doubtfully,  one  of  them  ventur- 
ing a  word  of  warning  to  the  owner.  But  Mar- 
den  prided  himself  on  his  ability  to  handle 
horses,  and  drove  off  with  unconcern.  On  a 
country  road  a  barking  dog  displeased  the 
fiery  creature;  it  took  the  bit  in  its  teeth  and 
ran  until  the  vehicle  was  dashed  against  a  tree 


248        EVER-PRESENT    HELP, 

and  the  occupants  thrown  violently  to  tHe 
ground. 

Marden  was  slightly  hurt,  but  Rose  was  car- 
ried to  her  home  unconscious  from  concussion 
of  the  brain,  and  was  lying  there  now  between 
life  and  death,  the  doctors  being  able  to  tell 
little  about  the  possibilities. 

Spaulding  had  been  to  the  house  again  and 
again  and  had  finally  learned  from  one  of  the 
physicians  that  probably  nothing  definite  con- 
cerning the  patient  would  be  known  before 
morning. 

With  the  long  night  before  him  he  had  wan- 
dered about  the  streets,  until,  nearing  his  club, 
he  entered,  half  through  unconsciousness  of  his 
movements,  half  because  of  physical  weariness. 

It  was  Sunday  night,  and  at  that  hour,  half 
past  ten,  the  place  was  almost  deserted,  only 
the  regular  frequenters,  men  who  had  no 
homes,  or,  having  them,  did  not  care  to  go  to 
them,  being  scattered  here  and  there  about  the 
big  rooms.  The  lights  were  dim  and  an  un- 
accustomed quiet  prevailed. 

Spaulding  sank  down  in  an  easy  chair  in  a 
corner  of  the  library,  choosing  that  place  be- 
cause the  room  was  otherwise  empty.  In  the 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP        249 

next  room  some  one  was  playing  softly  on  a 
piano. 

With  the  one  terrible  situation  absorbing 
his  thoughts,  he  forgot  his  surroundings.  He 
had  felt  himself  helpless  during  the  last 
weeks,  but  then  there  was  always  the  possibil- 
ity that  he  could  do  something  to  mend  mat- 
ters. Now  he  confronted  a  blank  wall.  The 
girl  might  recover  or  she  might  die,  and  he 
could  neither  help  nor  hinder.  Beyond  the 
wall  he  could  not  see.  If  she  recovered  to  marry 
Marden — well,  perhaps  it  were  better  that 
she  should  go  out  of  the  world  than  to  do  that. 
But  if  she  died,  what  would  life  mean  hence- 
forth to  himself?  No,  no,  she  must  get  well; 
for  her  own  sake  she  must  recover.  She  was 
young;  life  has  much  for  her  yet,  whoever 
traveled  the  road  with  her.  God  would  be 
cruel  to  take  her  now. 

God!  He  laughed  aloud  as  the  thought 
came  to  his  mind.  As  if  God  took  any  heed  of 
the  tragedies  and  joys  of  the  people  of  the 
earth — if  there  were  any  God! 

At  this  point  he  became  aware  once  more  of 
the  piano  in  the  next  room.  In  the  dim  light 
he  could  see  the  outline  of  the  man's  figure 


250       EVER-PRESENT    HELP 

there — some  one  he  did  not  recognize.  "A 
lonely  devil  like  myself,"  Spaulding  thought 
carelessly. 

The  man  was  playing  old  familiar  melo- 
dies, and  as  he  touched  the  keys  lightly  he 
sang  softly  in  a  sweet  tenor  voice,  so  softly 
that  it  was  like  music  echoing  from  afar. 

They  were  the  plaintive  old  songs  that  our 
fathers  and  mothers  knew  and  that  are  seldom 
heard  now.  The  singer  knew  them  all: — 
Home,  Sweet  Home,  Annie  Laurie,  Listen  to 
the  Mocking  Bird,,  Nellie  Was  a  Lady,  Old 
Folks  at  Home. 

John  Spaulding  found  himself  listening. 

"Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home, 
Be  it  ev-er  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like 
home." 

Something  tightened  like  a  band  about  the 
listener's  heart,  as  the  melody  floated  around 
him.  He  had  no  home,  and  he  might  never 
have  one  now.  The  pressure  was  not  lifted 
when  a  little  later,  came  the  touching  refrain 
of  the  old  love  song: 

"And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  die." 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP        251 

He  would  gladly  die  for  his  own  love  if  it 
would  save  her,  he  thought. 

The  singer,  not  knowing  that  he  had  listen- 
ers, that  this  man  and  that  had  crept  within 
hearing  until  all  the  club  loiterers  were  in  his 
audience,  went  on  with  his  music. 

"Way  down  upon  the  Suwannee  River,  far, 

far  away, 

There's  where  my  heart  is  turning  ever, 
There's  where  the  old  folks  stay." 

Would  the  fellow  never  stop?  He  could  not 
stand  much  more  of  those  harrowing  old  airs, 
they  clutched  the  throat  so.  There  was  old 
Sam  Johnson  over  in  the  corner,  wiping  his 
eyes,  and  Joe  Avery  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 
There  ought  to  be  some  limit  to  the  free  use 
of  the  club  piano.  But  again  came  the  plain- 
tive words: 

"There's  where  the  old  folks  stay." 

A  sudden  picture  came  before  Spaulding's 
eyes.  He  saw  the  little  house  where  his  child- 
hood had  been  spent.  He  saw  his  "old  folks", 
dead  these  many  years;  his  father's  kindly 
face  and  his  mother's  gentle  smile  came  be- 


252       EVER-PRESENT   HELP 

fore  him  vividly  out  of  the  long  ago.  And  into 
his  vision  entered  the  little  boy  who  had  said 
farewell  to  the  old  home.  He  saw  him  go 
down  among  the  corn  rows  under  the  green 
shadows;  almost  he  could  hear  the  rustle  of 
the  leaves  and  inhale  the  odor  of  the  warm 
earth.  He  saw  the  little  boy  kneel  under  the 
sheltering  corn  and  heard  him  pray: 

"Oh,  God,  won't  you  please  take  care  of  me 
now?  I  have  no  one  else,  you  know !" 

The  man  in  the  next  room  was  still  singing 
and  now  he  had  begun  on  the  old  hymns.  Into 
his  soft  voice  came  a  triumphant  note. 

"Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me, 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 

Nearer  to  Thee!" 

It  was  a  ,  favorite  song  with  Spaulding's 
mother.  He  could  hear  her  sing  it  now.  He 
remembered  wondering  vaguely  what  it  meant, 
that  being  lifted  by  a  cross  to  God.  But  he 
couldn't  endure  any  more,  and  hastily  made 
his  way  out,  the  words  echoing  after  him : 


EVER-PRESENT   HELP.       253 

"Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer  to  Thee!" 

Joe  Avery  followed  him  and  they  stood  on 
the  steps  a  moment  together  in  the  summer 
night. 

"Queer  what  an  effect  those  old  songs  will 
have  on  a  fellow.  I  haven't  heard  them  for 
years  and  they  broke  me  all  up.  Say,  Spauld- 
ing,  do  you  believe  in  God,  and  do  you  reckon 
our  mothers  were  right?" 

To  himself,  half  an  hour  before,  he  would 
have  said  that  he  did  not  believe  in  God,  but  a 
sudden  sense  of  responsibility  came  over  him 
and  he  could  not  say  this  to  frivolous  Joe 
Avery,  unexpectedly  groping  after  light. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  believe  as  firmly  as  I 
ought  to,  Joe,"  he  said,  "but  I  guess  it's  safe 
to  follow  our  mothers." 

He  could  not  go  to  his  room  until  he  knew 
something  more  about  Rose.  He  was  too  rest- 
less to  remain  there.  So  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  quiet  streets  under  the  watching 
stars,  until  finally,  thoroughly  weary,  he 
sought  a  bench  in  a  little  park. 

His  thoughts  had  somehow  taken  a  new 
turn.  He  was  confronted  by  a  situation  where 


254       EVER-PRESENT    HELP 

he  could  do  nothing  himself,  where  perhaps 
even  science  could  do  nothing,  yet  where  some- 
thing ought  to  be  done,  where  a  life  should  be 
saved. 

Though  he  knew  that  whether  Rose  Haynes 
died  or  whether  she  lived  to  marry  Harden  his 
own  life  would  be  darkened,  its  hope  and  in- 
spiration gone,  he  found  himself,  curiously 
enough,  removing  himself  as  a  factor  in  the 
case. 

"Perhaps,  after  all,  she  would  be  happier 
with  Marden,"  he  argued.  "They  are  young 
together;  women  of  the  right  sort  are  often 
the  making  of  their  husbands,  and  she  might 
be  the  one  to  make  a  real  man  of  him.  How  do 
I  know  the  contrary?  I  could  make  her  hap- 
py, I  think,  but  if  she  loves  Marden — why, 
then — then  I  am  the  loser,  that's  all.  But 
there  ought  to  be  some  way  to  help.  If  I  could 
only  do  something." 

Then,  out  of  space  somewhere  came  to  his 
consciousness  the  words  spoken  by  his  mother 
when  she  lay  dying:  "Pray  to  God,  my  son; 
He  is  an  ever-present  help  in  time  of  trouble." 
He  had  not  followed  her  injunction  except 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP,        255 

that  one  time  in  his  childish  stress — and  had 
God  answered  and  guarded  or  guided  him? 
Certainly  not.  He  had  cared  for  himself. 
Such  fortune  and  success  as  he  had  won  had 
been  all  due  to  his  own  efforts. 

Had  they,  though?  Now  that  he  thought 
of  it,  were  those  strange  circumstances  that 
took  him  out  of  farming  life  and  led  him  into 
the  mining  business  things  of  his  own  making? 
Not  at  all.  They  were  unaccountable,  every- 
thing considered.  And  was  it  the  mere  acci- 
dent which  he  had  always  considered  it  that 
brought  him  to  the  notice  and  into  the  employ 
of  the  great  capitalist  and  thereby  to  his  pres- 
ent state  of  financial  prosperity?  Was  it  by 
chance  that  he  had  awakened  from  heavy  sleep 
that  night  in  the  big  western  hotel  just  in 
time  to  save  himself  from  a  fiery  death?  Was 
it  any  foresight  of  his  that  had  restrained  him 
from  going  down  into  the  Farson  silver  mine 
out  in  Colorado,  as  he  had  intended,  on  the 
very  trip  on  which  the  machinery  broke  and  let 
the  cage  fall  a  thousand  feet?  No,  it  was  not. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  God  had  "taken  care".  But, 
bah!  better  men  than  he  had  suffered  calami- 


256       EVER-PRESENT   HELP. 

ties  and  God  had  not  interfered.  It  was  not 
likely  that  the  Maker  of  Earth,  had  stretched 
out  a  hand  to  him. 

But  how  did  he  know  what  God  had  done 
for  these  other  men?  Perhaps  their  afflictions 
had  been  the  cross  that  had  lifted  them  to  Him. 
Must  it  always  be  a  cross,  he  wondered,  that 
brings  the  helpless  human  creature  nearer  to 
"whatever  gods  there  be?"  Was  he  to  be  dis- 
ciplined through  the  death  of  Rose?  No,  no, 
if  there  was  a  God,  He  could  not  be  like  that. 

Persistently  the  words  he  had  heard  from 
his  mother  came  out  of  the  past  and  repeated 
themselves  over  and  over  in  his  mind:  "An 
ever-present  help."  "Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given 
you." 

An  unaccustomed  humility  and  doubt  over- 
came him.  How  could  he  ask  for  what  he 
wanted  most  when  he  did  not  know  what  was 
best  for  the  girl;  when  he  did  not  know  but 
that  continued  life  might  mean  misery  to  her? 
How  could  he  dare? 

Suddenly,  and  seemingly  without  his  voli- 
tion, he  rose  to  his  feet  and  stretched  up  his 
hands. 

"Oh,  God,"  he  cried,  "give  help,  give  help. 


EVER-PRESENT    HELP        257 

I  have  no  one  but  Thee.    Restore  my  beloved 
if  it  be  best  for  her." 

A  little  bird  in  the  tree  above  him  chirped 
sleepily.  A  soft  breeze  stirred  the  leaves.  The 
stars  were  beginning  to  fade  before  the  com- 
ing dawn.  All  at  once  the  Power  to  whom  he 
had  called  seemed  no  longer  afar  off.  Into 
his  mind  came  words  he  had  heard  somewhere 
long  ago  without  knowing  their  meaning: 
"Closer  is  He  than  breathing,  nearer  than 
hands  or  feet."  Something,  Some  One,  had 
come  to  him  out  of  the  darkness.  He  had  no 
consciousness  of  belief  more  than  he  had  had 
in  the  early  hours  of  the  night.  He  only  knew 
that  peace  had  fallen  upon  him  like  a  garment 
and  that  he  was  ready  for  what  might  come. 

The  dim  world  looked  new  to  him  and 
strange  as  he  walked  up  the  street  toward 
Rose's  home.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
never  before  seen  the  wonder  of  the  sky,  the 
grace  of  the  trees  outlined  against  the  blue. 

He  paused  before  the  gate  with  bared  head 
and  yearning  wonder  in  his  heart.  A  servant 
opened  the  door  softly  and  came  down  the 
steps,  starting  at  the  sight  of  him  waiting 
there.  The  man's  face  was  bright. 


258        EVER-PRESENT    HELB 

"Miss  Rose  has  come  to  herself,  sir,"  he 
said.  "She's  going  to  be  all  right,  the  doctors 
say,  and  she's  asking  for  you.  I  was  going 
after  you,  sir.  And  she  says  to  tell  you  she 
knows,  now." 

It  was  not  triumph  but  humility  and  awe 
that  looked  out  of  the  eyes  of  this  man,  only 
yesterday  so  self-confident. 

He  paused  on  the  steps  before  entering,  with 
his  face  turned  to  the  rosy  dawn. 

"God  is  good,"  he  whispered.  "It  is  not 
always  a  cross  that  raiseth  us." 


THE  POSTMISTRESS 

MISS  Emeline  A.  Mason  was  postmis- 
tress of  Garden  City,  Indiana.  She 
preferred  to  be  called  "postmaster",  as  she 
considered  that  the  "master"  added  something 
to  the  dignity  of  the  position,  and  that,  inas- 
much as  the  government  was  not  concerned 
with  the  sex  of  the  person  in  charge  of  its  busi- 
ness at  any  point,  the  masculine  title  was  quite 
properly  hers.  However  sound  this  reasoning 
was,  she  found  few  to  accept  it.  The  patrons 
of  the  office  all  spoke  of  her  as  "postmistress", 
and  the  most  of  them  seemed  to  have  a  pride  in 
her  incumbency  and  to  feel  a  degree  of  respon- 
sibility for  it.  For  when  her  father,  Colonel 
John  Mason,  had  died  suddenly  after  being 
appointed  to  the  office,  had  they  not  signed  a 
petition  to  the  Postmaster-General  asking  that 
the  daughter  of  the  veteran  soldier  might  be 
given  the  place?  She  had  held  it  now  for  two 
years  and  had  given  entire  satisfaction,  being 
a  naturally  amiable  young  woman  who  sought 

259 


260         THE    POSTMISTRESS 

to  please  at  all  times,  but  especially  now  when 
she  considered  herself  "in  politics".  She  had 
not  been  born  and  reared  in  Indiana  without 
fully  understanding  that  the  part  of  one  who 
holds  office  and  may  want  a  second  term  is  to 
be  agreeable  to  every  man,  woman  or  child  who 
comes  in  the  way. 

The  town  of  Garden  City  is  small,  notwith- 
standing the  latter  half  of  its  name,  and  the 
business  not  sufficiently  large  to  bring  much 
income  to  the  postmaster.  Miss  Emeline,  how- 
ever, was  a  girl  of  resources.  She  supple- 
mented her  official  duties  by  giving  piano  les- 
sons, for  which  she  was  considered  well  quali- 
fied, having,  as  her  friends  said,  had  every 
advantage.  An  Indianapolis  teacher  of  whose 
instruction  she  had  the  benefit,  had  had  a  class 
in  Garden  City  for  one  entire  year,  coming 
down  twice  a  week,  and  she  had  spent  one  win- 
ter at  the  capital  city  with  her  uncle,  taking 
lessons  while  there.  Odd  half-hours  scattered 
among  the  sorting  and  delivering  of  the  two 
daily  mails,  the  giving  of  the  lessons,  the  doing 
of  the  housework  in  their  small  cottage,  and 
the  waiting  upon  her  semi-invalid  mother,  she 
spent  in  embroidering  lunch-cloths  and  other 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          261 

dainty  linens  which  a  cousin,  who  kept  what  he 
called  a  dry-goods  emporium  in  Cincinnati, 
kindly  sold  for  her  on  a  liberal  commission. 
In  addition  to  all  these  occupations  Miss  Erne- 
line  operated  the  cabinet  organ  in  the  Metho- 
dist church  on  Sundays,  attended  the  church 
fairs  and  other  select  festivities  of  the  little 
town,  and  belonged  to  the  Ladies'  Literary 
Club,  on  whose  record  her  name  was  down  in 
full  as  Miss  Emeline  Aurelia  Mason ;  and  for 
which  she  wrote  papers  on  "The  Intellectual 
Life,"  "Woman's   Sphere,"  "The  Power  of 
Thought,"  "George  Meredith's  Novels,"  and 
other  improving,  if  not  exciting,  topics.     It 
will  thus  be  seen  that  the  postmaster  of  Gar- 
den City  was  a  woman  of  energy.     As  old- 
time  New  England  dames  would  have  ex- 
pressed it,  she  had  "faculty" — not  at  all  an  un- 
common attribute  in  these  days,  but,  somehow, 
one  which  it  has  come  to  be  the  fashion  to 
ascribe  to  women  of  the  preceding  generation 
who  did  their  own  housework  and  made  all 
their  own  and  their  families'  garments  out  of 
cloth  woven  by  their  own  hands. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  all  her  industry 
and  accomplishments  went  unnoticed.     Erne- 


202          THE    POSTMISTRESS 

line,  pretty  as  well  as  practical,  had  a  lover, 
and  busy  as  she  was,  found  time  in  which  to 
make  life  interesting-  for  him.  She  usually 
had,  in  fact,  more  than  one  lover;  if  she  were 
to  tell  the  whole  truth  about  it  she  would  have 
admitted  that  in  all  her  twenty-four  years  she 
could  not  remember  a  time  when  she  did  not 
have  at  least  two  ardent  masculine  admirers. 
Some  came  and  went,  but  Harvey  Carter  had 
remained  faithful  from  the  time  when,  as  a 
barefooted  urchin  he  had  guided  her  baby 
steps,  until  now,  when  she  was  postmistress  of 
Garden  City  and  a  woman  of  affairs.  She 
thought  a  great  deal  of  Harvey,  he  had  come 
to  be  necessary  to  her  peace  and  comfort  of 
mind ;  but  she  had  never  told  him  so,  although 
for  the  last  year  something  like  a  marriage 
engagement  had  existed  between  them.  Some- 
thing like  it,  but  not  quite  so  definite  an  ar- 
rangement. Harvey,  manlike,  had  grown  im- 
patient and  perhaps  exasperated  by  her  calm 
acceptance  of  other  men's  attentions,  and  in- 
sisted on  an  understanding.  She  had  promised 
with  coquettish  reluctance  to  think  about  mar- 
rying him  when  her  term  of  office  was  over; 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          263 

but  sHe  had  refused  to  be  bound  by  a  fixed 
engagement,  or  to  bind  him. 

"You  may  see  some  one  you  like  better  than 
you  do  me  before  that  time,"  she  had  said  with 
a  mischievous  look. 

He  had  replied  that  he  considered  himself 
engaged  to  her  just  the  same,  and  had  gone 
away,  not  satisfied,  but  still  feeling  that  he 
had  gained  a  point  in  making  her  acknowledge 
a  willingness  to  marry  him  som'etime,  even 
though  the  proviso  were  attached  that  she 
might  change  her  mind.  Matters  had  gone 
on  since  that  time  much  as  they  did  before. 
Emeline  accepted  Harvey's  escort  to  church 
and  to  church  socials,  to  "readings,"  amateur 
concerts,  picnics  and  other  gaieties  that  made  a 
part  of  Garden  City's  social  life;  and  went 
buggy-riding  with  him  after  the  rural  fash- 
ion, as  she  had  always  done.  That  is,  she  went 
to  some  of  these  entertainments  with  him; 
sometimes  she  chose  to  accept  the  attentions  of 
Ben  Perry  and  other  beaux  of  the  village,  also 
as  she  had  always  done. 

"You  know  I  am  not  really  engaged  to  you, 
Harvey  Carter,  and  I  am  not  going  to  have 


264         THE    POSTMISTRESS 

people  think  I  am,"  she  would  say  in  response 
to  his  protests  on  such  occasions. 

Ben  Perry  was  also  one  of  her  early  admir- 
ers. His  attentions  had  been  of  a  somewhat 
intermittent  character,  and  he  was  likely  to 
have  sudden  fancies  for  other  girls,  but  he 
always  made  Emeline  the  confidante  of  his  love 
affairs  and  she  knew  the  beginning  and  end 
of  them.  He  had  made  love  to  Emeline  at  in- 
tervals, though  he  had  never  gone  so  far  as  to 
propose.  Emeline  flattered  herself  that  it 
was  her  judicious  treatment  of  him,  her  tact 
and  power  of  wholesome  repression,  which 
prevented  this  undesired  climax.  For  it  was 
not  desired.  Although  Ben  Perry  was  consid- 
ered by  the  worldly  mamas  of  the  town  a 
more  eligible  man  in  some  respects  than  Har- 
vey Carter,  owning  as  he  did  a  good  farm  in 
addition  to  an  interest  in  the  "general  store," 
of  which  he  was  manager,  while  Carter  had 
only  a  farm — in  spite  of  these  attractions, 
added  to  the  advantage  of  constantly  wearing 
good  clothes,  Emeline  had  never  been  able  to 
think  of  him  seriously  as  a  possible  husband. 
She  preferred  to  keep  him  on  the  footing  of  a 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          265 

good  friend,  and  this  she  had  succeeded  in  do- 
ing, so  far,  with  the  occasional  exceptions  be- 
fore noted,  when  he  grew  more  demonstrative 
than  the  role  of  friendship  required.  But  in 
spite  of  her  attitude  of  being  a  sister  to  him 
Emeline  cherished  the  secret  conviction  that 
she  had  only  to  give  the  slightest  hint  of  a 
warmer  liking  for  him  and  he  would  instantly 
respond.  In  short,  she  believed  that  he  was 
hers  if  she  chose  to  take  him,  and  the  belief 
pleased  her.  Although  she  did  not  want  to 
marry  him  herself,  her  regard  for  him  was 
such  that  she  did  not  think  favorably  of 
any  of  the  other  young  women  whom  she 
suspected  of  aspiring  to  his  affections.  This, 
although  selfish,  is  perhaps  not  entirely  an 
uncommon  state  of  the  feminine  mind.  At 
all  events,  Emeline  Mason  looked  upon  these 
two  men  as  hers  if  she  wanted  them,  and  had 
held  this  proprietary  feeling  for  so  long  that 
it  seemed  one  of  the  settled  things  that  would 
go  unchanged  until  she  should  do  something 
herself  to  end  it.  Later  experience  caused  the 
conviction  to  be  borne  in  upon  her  that  even 
the  most  diffident  man  will  not  be  restrained 


266          THE    POSTMISTRESS 

from  asking  a  woman  to  marry  him,  once  he 
has  made  up  his  mind  that  he  wants  her — and 
Ben  Perry  was  not  diffident. 

All  this  summer  she  had  seen  but  little  of 
Harvey.  His  farm  work  had  absorbed  more 
time  than  usual  early  in  the  season,  and  after 
harvest  it  chanced  that  his  father,  living  at 
Greenbush,  ten  miles  distant,  fell  ill  and  he 
had  been  in  attendance  upon  him  for  several 
weeks.  It  was  September  now,  and  Harvey 
had  been  home  for  more  than  two  weeks,  but 
although  his  farm  was  only  two  miles  from  the 
post-office,  Emeline  had  had  but  one  or  two 
brief  glimpses  of  him.  Being  busy  herself, 
this  would  not  have  disturbed  her  or  excited 
more  than  a  passing  wonder  had  it  not  been 
for  two  things.  One  was  the  fact  that  Mr. 
Harvey  Carter  was  conducting  a  very  lively 
correspondence  with  a  young  woman  over  in 
Greenbush.  Since  his  return  from  there  at 
least  half  a  dozen  missives  addressed  in  the 
hand  she  knew  so  well  had  gone  to  Miss  Kitty 
Frazer,  of  Greenbush,  and  more  than  that 
number  had  come  from  that  place  inscribed 
with  his  name,  in  a  delicate  wavering  chirog- 
raphy,  with  pale  ink  and  a  pen  of  the  finest 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          267 

point.  Emeline,  who  handled  all  the  mail  of 
the  little  office  herself,  except  in  case  of  emer- 
gency, when  her  mother  was  delegated  to  the 
duty,  inspected  the  first  of  these  letters  with 
much  interest.  She  fancied  that  she  under- 
stood something  of  the  significance  of  various 
forms  of  handwriting,  and  promptly  decided 
that  Miss  Kitty  Frazer  was  a  girl  of  very 
little  force  of  character  and  of  almost  no  will 
power.  When  the  epistles  began  to  fly  back 
and  forth  rapidly  the  postmistress  of  Garden 
City  fell  into  frequent  fits  of  meditation.  Citi- 
zens asking  her  for  their  mail  found  her  so  ab- 
sent-minded that  she  frequently  got  their  let- 
ters and  papers  mixed.  Indeed,  she  received 
the  first  rebuke  in  her  official  experience  when 
Deacon  Alonzo  Jones  returned  a  Christian 
Adovcate  which  she  had  given  him  instead  of 
his  Herald  and  Presbyter,  which  had  gone  into 
the  hands  of  Squire  Albert  Johnson,  an  ardent 
Methodist  brother. 

One  evening  about  this  time,  as  she  sat  on 
the  front  steps  of  her  cottage  in  the  dusk — the 
little  building  in  the  same  yard  which  consti- 
tuted the  United  States  post-office  being 
closed — Ben  Perry  joined  her.  She  had  been 


268          THE    POSTMISTRESS 

thinking  of  Harvey  Carter's  behavior  and  was 
in  a  melancholy  mood,  but  had  no  intention  of 
betraying  her  feelings  or  their  cause.  With 
true  feminine  guile,  therefore,  she  greeted  Ben 
with  rather  more  than  her  ordinary  cheerful- 
ness, and  chatted  and  chaffed  as  if  in  the 
highest  of  spirits.  After  they  had  touched 
upon  all  the  topics  of  current  interest  in  the 
village  and  conversation  began  to  lag,  young 
Perry  asked  with  apparent  carelessness,  "Seen 
Harvey  since  he  came  back  from  Greenbush?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Emeline. 

"Didn't  say  anything,  I  reckon,  did  he, 
about  the  flirtation  he's  been  carrying  on  over 
there?" 

Emeline  laughed  easily  as  she  replied:  "If 
Harvey  has  been  flirting  he  must  have  been 
taking  a  lesson  from  you,  Ben." 

"Now,  Em,  don't  be  hard  on  a  fellow.  I 
can't  help  it,  but  Harvey,  he's  such  a  steady- 
going  old  boy  that  it  seems  funny.  Never 
appeared  to  care  for  any  other  girl  than  you 
before.  Of  course,  I  know  you  won't  think 
seriously  of  him  or  of  me,  or  of  any  other  chap 
who  has  hung  around,  so  far,  or  I  wouldn't 
have  mentioned  it ;  but  it  seems  so  queer." 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          269 

"That's  right,  don't  keep  still  on  my  ac- 
count. Who's  the  girl?" 

"Kitty  Frazer.  You  ought  to  know  her; 
you'd  like  her.  She's  a  little  blue-eyed  doll  of 
a  thing,  just  like  a  child,  as  innocent  and  un- 
suspecting. A  man  oughtn't  to  lead  her  on  to 
like  him  unless  he's  in  earnest  on  his  own  part. 
[But  Harvey,  I  guess,  is  hard  hit.  He  was 
over  there  half  his  time  after  his  father  got 
better.  I'll  bet  he  writes  to  her  every  day, 
though  I'm  not  so  sure  about  her  answering. 
[But,  pshaw!  I  needn't  be  guessing  about  a 
correspondence  to  the  postmistress,  who 
handles  everybody's  letters." 

Emeline  stiffened  instantly. 

"Now,  Ben  Perry,  you  don't  suppose  I  pay 
any  attention  to  the  mail  that  passes  through 
my  hands  except  to  see  where  it  is  to  be  sent. 
I  am  altogether  too  busy  to  be  spending  my 
time  in  studying  the  addresses  and  speculat- 
ing about  the  writers  or  what  the  letters  con- 
tain/* 

!Ben  apologized,  and  presently  went  his  way, 
having  but  partially  accomplished  the  object 
of  his  visit,  and  without  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  he  had  scored  even  one  point. 


270         THE    POSTMISTRESS 

But  he  had  completed  what  the  discovery  of 
the  correspondence  had  begun.  Emeline  was 
thoroughly  aroused  to  the  astonishing  defec- 
tion and  misbehavior  of  Harvey  Carter.  That 
night  she  was  wakeful.  While  the  long  hours 
ticked  themselves  away  she  thought  of  many 
things,  and  she  learned  this,  namely,  that  she 
could  no  longer  play  with  or  disguise  her  feel- 
ing for  Harvey.  Her  old  easy,  placid  feeling 
of  friendship,  as  she  had  called  it,  had  sudden- 
ly vanished,  and  in  its  place  was  an  eager  long- 
ing for  his  presence,  his  touch,  the  assurance 
that  he  thought  only  of  her.  She  had  not  val- 
ued such  assurance  heretofore;  now  she  hun- 
gered for  it.  To  know  that  she  would  have  it 
no  more,  would,  she  acknowledged  to  herself, 
be  to  darken  her  days,  to  take  joy  and  hope 
away.  She  loved  him;  she  loved  him.  She 
whispered  it  to  herself  over  and  over  while 
cheeks  burned  and  heart  throbbed  with  the 
newly  awakened  emotion — the  dear  old  Har- 
vey whom  she  had  snubbed,  and  scolded,  and 
tantalized,  faithful  soul!  But  no;  he  was 
not  faithful.  He  was  devoting  himself  to 
another  girl,  and  what  right  had  she  to  object 
when  she  had  expressly  provided  for  the  pos- 


THE   POSTMISTRESS         271 

sibility  that  he  might  change  his  mind !  It  be- 
wildered her,  the  very  thought  that  he  could 
have  eyes  for  another  than  herself;  Harvey 
Carter,  the  big,  handsome,  blundering  man 
who  had  professed  to  love  her  and  seemed  con- 
stancy personified — so  constant,  indeed,  that 
she  had  imposed  upon  him,  and  he  had  had  to 
turn  for  consolation  to  another. 

Next  morning  she  was  pale,  and  her  eyes 
had  a  look  new  to  her — the  look  which  comes 
of  many  tears,  and  which  so  many  women 
know. 

That  day  Harvey  Carter  rode  up,  dropped 
some  letters  in  the  slide,  peeped  through  the 
little  official  window,  and  with  a  gay,  "Good 
morning,  Emmy,  busy  as  usual;  see  you  lat- 
er;" had  gone  in  as  great  haste  as  he  had 
come.  Before  he  was  out  of  sight  the  curios- 
ity of  the  woman  overcame  official  deliberation 
and  she  had  examined  the  letters  and  found, 
as  she  had  expected,  one  for  the  girl  at  Green- 
bush.  Just  then  the  mail  from  the  East  was 
tossed  from  the  train,  and  as  the  postmistress 
distributed  the  contents  of  the  bag  she  found 
a  letter  for  Harvey,  addressed  in  the  now 
familiar  hand  of  Miss  Kitty  Frazer. 


272          THE    POSTMISTRESS 

There  in  her  own  hands,  she  had  them — two 
letters  whose  contents  she  felt  would  prove  be- 
yond doubt  Harvey  Carter's  fickleness  and 
falseness — information  which  ought  to  be  hers 
without  delay.  How  earnest  was  her  struggle 
against  temptation  can  not  be  known;  but  at 
least  the  struggle  was  soon  over,  for,  at  the 
first  moment  when  she  could  secure  privacy, 
she — opened  and  read  both  letters!  It  is  sad 
to  tell;  it  would  be  far  more  edifying  if  it 
could  be  related  of  this  young  woman  of  so 
much  intelligence  and  so  many  good  qualities 
that  she  spurned  the  first  suggestion  of  tres- 
passing on  sacred  private  rights,  and  that  with 
stern  personal  and  official  integrity  she  sent 
the  letters  to  their  respective  destinations  un- 
tampered  with.  But  even  the  "new  woman", 
the  modern,  progressive,  self-reliant  woman, 
so  much  talked  of,  has  her  faults,  and  chroni- 
cles must  be  accurate.  Postmistress  Mason 
was  honest  and  faithful  to  all  general  intents 
and  purposes.  She  would  have  died  rather 
than  deliberately  break  the  seal  of  mail  con- 
taining valuables.  The  wealth  of  a  Gould  or 
the  jewels  of  a  prima  donna  passing  through 
her  hands  would  not  have  aroused  cupidity,  or 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          273 

had  they  done  so,  the  mere  wish  for  a  share 
would  have  gone  no  further.  The  business  of 
the  public,  the  outside  public  in  which  she  had 
no  close  personal  concern,  was  carefully  and 
honestly  attended  to  in  every  detail.  She  was 
straightforward  in  all  her  dealings  and  in  her 
tendencies,  and  was  as  truthful  as  is  possible 
for  proper  self -protection  in  an  inquisitive  im- 
pertinent world. 

But  in  spite  of  all  this  she  succumbed  to  the 
first  impulse  to  wrong-doing  that  assailed  her 
in  her  official  career.  She  opened  letters 
to  find  out  what  her  recreant  lover  was 
doing.  She  knew  the  full  meaning  of  her 
act;  she  knew  it  was  not  honorable,  and 
she  also  knew  that  it  was  an  offense  against 
the  law — a  felony,  in  truth.  But  neither  of 
these  considerations  restrained  her.  Just  here, 
it  may  be  said,  that  while  she  was  afterward 
sorry  for  her  act  because  of  certain  unexpected 
results,  and  was  ashamed  of  it  when  she  con- 
sidered it  as  an  infraction  of  official  duty,  she 
never  had  a  twinge  of  conscience  on  account 
of  it.  Although  as  an  abstract  proposition 
she  knew  such  a  proceeding  was  wrong,  as  mere 
wrong-doing,  she  did  not  regret  it.  Why  a 


274          THE    POSTMISTRESS 

woman  otherwise  honest  and  scrupulous  should 
develop  this  moral  defect,  whether  a  woman  is 
naturally  incapable  of  the  highest  integrity 
when  love  and  jealousy  combine  to  affect  her 
serenity  and  self-control,  are  questions  which 
must  be  left  to  psychologists  to  answer. 

She  opened  these  letters  and  read  them.  At 
the  first  reading  she  experienced  a  distinct 
sense  of  disappointment.  They  were  less  ob- 
jectionable than  she  had  prepared  herself  to 
find  them.  Miss  Kitty's  epistle  was  brief  and 
began  primly:  "Mr.  Harvey  Carter,  Dear 
Friend."  It  contained  an  item  or  two  of  neigh- 
borhood news,  expressed  regret  that  he  was  no 
longer  there — "it  was  so  lonely  without  him," 
and  said  that  his  friend,  Mr.  Ben  Perry,  had 
taken  her  out  buggy-riding  the  Sunday  after- 
noon before.  "He  said,"  she  went  on — "but 
you  mustn't  dare  to  tell  him  I  told  you — he  said 
he  was  afraid  you  were  a  flirt.  It  made  me  feel 
real  badly,  and  I  cried  about  it  when  I  got 
home.  I  told  him  I  didn't  believe  you  would  do 
so  wicked  a  thing  as  to  make  love  to  a  girl  when 
you  didn't  mean  it.  Now  about  Ben — Mr. 
Perry — I  am  not  so  sure.  Of  course,  I  didn't 
allow  him  to  make  love  to  me.  Hasn't  he  a 


THE    POSTMISTRESS         275 

sweetheart  over  in  Garden  City?  Somebody 
told  me  he  owned  a  nice  house  in  Garden  City 
and  had  a  lot  of  money — oh,  as  much  as  ten 
thousand  dollars.  Is  that  so?  Some  girls  care 
so  much  for  such  things.  I  don't  think  it's  nice 
of  them,  do  you?" 

Harvey  addressed  his  correspondent  as 
"Little  Sweetheart,"  on  seeing  which  Emeline 
felt  that  she  had  had  a  blow.  That  had  been 
his  pet  name  for  her  when  he  dared  venture  on 
any  endearments.  An  ache  in  her  heart  that 
had  never  been  there  before  came  at  the 
thought  that  he  could  so  far  forget  the  asso- 
ciation of  this  title  with  her  as  to  give  it  to 
another.  But  there  was  nothing  to  complain 
of  in  the  body  of  the  letter.  A  statement  that 
he  was  slowly  catching  up  with  the  work  on  the 
farm,  a  remark  that  he  was  so  tired  when  night 
came  that  he  could  not  stay  awake,  an  assur- 
ance, evidently  a  response  to  a  question,  that 
he  did  not  desire  to  live  in  town  but  much  pre- 
ferred the  farm,  and  two  or  three  bits  of  infor- 
mation concerning  Perry,  whom  she  had  ap- 
parently asked  some  guileless  questions  about, 
made  up  the  document. 

Emeline   carefully   resealed  the  letters   so 


276         THE    POSTMISTRESS 

that  her  trespassing  could  not  be  detected — let 
those  who  know  how  tell  the  way — and  re- 
turned them  to  the  mail  to  go  to  their  respect- 
ive destinations. 

Then  she  proceeded  to  think  seriously.  It 
seemed  very  plain  to  her  that  Kitty  Frazer 
was  in  love  with  Harvey.  It  did  not  require 
much  skill  at  reading  between  the  lines  to  dis- 
cover that,  she  thought,  when  the  lines  them- 
selves unconsciously  betrayed  it.  As  for  him, 
if  he  liked  the  girl  better  than  herself,  it  was 
all  right;  but  "little  sweetheart": — she  could 
never  forgive  him  for  that. 

A  result  of  her  reflections  was  a  desire  to  see 
the  girl  who  wrote  that  letter,  and  she  proceed- 
ed to  devise  a  way.  She  had  a  friend  in  Green- 
bush,  a  young  woman  who  had  gone  there  to 
live  after  her  marriage,  and  whom  she  had 
promised  to  visit.  With  Emeline,  to  plan  was 
to  do,  and  the  next  Sunday  found  her  at  the 
home  of  her  friend,  who,  by  happy  chance, 
lived  next  door  to  the  Frazers.  Miss  Kitty 
was  invited  to  dinner  by  the  unsuspecting  host- 
ess, and  that  young  lady's  attitude  toward  the 
guest  from  Garden  City  was  such  as  to  disarm 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          277 

all  suspicion  and  animosity  if  any  had  existed. 
She  was  a  tiny  creature,  with  limpid,  confiding 
blue  eyes,  which  turned  to  those  about  her  with 
an  irresistibly  appealing  expression.  She  at 
once  evinced  a  timid  but  decided  fancy  for 
Emeline.  After  dinner  she  took  the  visitor  for 
a  stroll  in  the  orchard  that  lay  back  of  the  vil- 
lage houses,  and,  once  there,  began  to  talk  of 
Harvey  Carter,  whose  name  Emeline  would 
not  have  dared  to  mention  for  fear  of  self -be- 
trayal. So  different  are  the  ways  and  powers 
of  women. 

But  Miss  Kitty  prattled  away,  telling  with 
little  blushes  how  nice  he  had  been  to  her  that 
summer,  how  lonely  it  was  since  he  had  gone, 
how  much  he  had  talked  of  her,  Miss  Mason, 
and  how  much  she,  Kitty  Frazer,  had  longed 
to  see  her. 

"But  now  that  I  have,"  she  said,  lifting  her 
blue  eyes  wistfully,  "now  that  I  have,  I  can't 
think  how  he  could  ever  care  to  talk  to  or  to 
look  at  me — it  could  only  have  been  because 
you  were  not  here." 

"There  is  no  question  about  it,"  thought 
Emeline  indignantly,  "whether  he  was  in  earn- 


278          THE    POSTMISTRESS 

est  or  was  only  amusing  himself,  he  has  made 
this  innocent,  transparent,  trusting  child  care 
for  him." 

Until  time  is  no  more,  the  woman  in  love  will 
refuse  to  be  convinced  that  her  lover  is  not  cov- 
eted by  other  women;  but  in  this  case  it  must 
be  acknowledged  that  there  was  some  basis  for 
the  supposition.  Miss  Kitty,  it  is  true,  did  ask 
some  questions  about  other  young  men  of  Gar- 
den City  whom  she  had  met,  among  them  Ben 
Perry.  "Awfully  rich,  isn't  he  ?"  she  inquired. 
But  all  that  counted  for  nothing.  It  was  per- 
fectly plain  to  Emeline  that  the  girl's  heart 
was  in  the  keeping  of  Harvey  Carter,  and  that 
she  was  too  childlike  to  conceal  the  fact. 

Emeline  went  home  and  took  up  her  varied 
duties,  but  her  mind  was  elsewhere.  Over  and 
over  she  wished  she  had  not  opened  those  let- 
ters. 

"If  I  had  never  positively  known  what  they 
said  to  each  othert"  she  thought,  "I  could  do  so 
differently.  But  because  I  did  open  them  I 
have  found  out  that  whatever  his  feelings  may 
be,  that  innocent  child  is  in  love  with  him.  I 
can  take  him  away  from  her  if  I  set  about  it. 
I  can  do  it  easily,  I  know.  He  isn't  hers  yet 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          279 

though  he  did  call  her  'sweetheart' ;  but  can 
I  help  break  that  little  creature's  heart?  Can 
I?  No,  I  can't." 

It  was  an  unexpectedly  self-sacrificing  spirit 
to  be  shown  by  a  woman  who  had  defied  the 
moral  and  the  postal  laws  to  gain  a  point,  but 
faults  and  virtues  go  side  by  side  in  frail  hu- 
manity, and  the  woman  is  rare  who  can  account 
for  her  own  inconsistencies,  to  say  nothing  of 
those  of  her  fellow  women. 

It  took  two  weeks  for  Emeline  to  determine 
on  her  course,  and  then  she  lost  no  more  time. 
She  wrote  a  note  to  Harvey  Carter,  and  told 
him  she  thought  it  best  that  there  should  no 
longer  be  even  a  half-way  engagement  be- 
tween them,  that  she  was  sure  they  could  never 
be  happy  together,  and  it  was  better  for  both 
that  there  should  be  no  lingering  sense  of  obli- 
gation; that  she  would  always  be  his  friend, 
that  she  wished  him  well,  etc. 

"Now  he  can  go  to  his  'little  sweetheart'," 
she  said  bitterly,  as  she  went  into  the  little  post- 
office,  put  an  official  stamp  on  the  missive  and 
deposited  it  in  Mr.  Carter's  private  box. 

Then,  her  heart  being  sore  and  her  need 
great,  she  went  to  her  fragile  mother's  side  in 


280         THE    POSTMISTRESS 

the  twilight,  and  knelt  there  like  a  child  and 
wept;  but  the  tears  were  not  like  those  of  a 
child,  they  were  bitter  and  burning.  The  moth- 
er's silent  sympathy  brought  comfort  at  least. 
The  touch  of  her  soft  hand,  the  murmur  of  the 
gentle  voice,  uttering  caressing  words,  soothed 
her.  A  wise  mother  she  was,  who  asked  no 
questions,  knowing  with  the  intuition  of  the 
truest  earthly  love  that  the  time  for  speech  was 
not  yet ;  a  blessed  mother,  who,  though  know- 
ing that  all  woes,  even  the  love  for  a  lover,  will 
pass  away,  yet  yearned  over  her  child  in  trouble 
and  sought  only  to  heal  her  hurt. 

In  the  morning  came  a  letter  from  her 
friend  at  Greenbush. 

"Have  you  heard  the  news?"  she  wrote. 
"We  just  know  it  here,  and  I  hasten  to  tell 
you.  Ben  Perry,  of  your  town,  drove  over  to 
Emmettsville  yesterday  with  Kitty  Frazer, 
and  they  were  married.  There  was  no  reason 
in  the  world  why  they  should  not  have  been 
married  at  home,  since  nobody  was  opposed; 
but  I  suppose  she  thought  it  best  to  make  him 
fast  while  he  was  in  the  humor,  as  he  has  a  rep- 
utation for  fickleness.  She  has  been  angling 


THE    POSTMISTRESS         281 

for  him  all  summer.  Before  she  even  met  him 
she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  capture  him ;  told 
me  so  confidentially,  with  those  deceitful  blue 
eyes  innocently  upturned.  She  is  a  mercenary 
little  wretch,  and  a  sly  one.  If  we  had  not  had 
so  many  more  interesting  things  to  talk  of 
when  you  were  here,  I  could  have  told  you  so. 
I  thought  for  a  while  this  summer  that  she  had 
determined  to  wear  Harvey  Carter's  scalp  at 
her  belt;  but  nothing,  I  guess,  could  win  him 
away  from  you.  (Don't  shake  your  head;  we 
all  know  which  way  the  land  lies  with  him.) 
Very  likely  she  only  cultivated  him  as  a  part 
of  her  scheme  to  reach  Ben." 

Emeline  Mason  was  a  clever  woman,  and 
had  flattered  herself  that  she  had  more  than 
ordinary  discernment,  but  she  sat  there  with 
this  letter  in  her  hand,  convicted  in  her  own 
mind  of  dense  and  inexcusable  stupidity. 

"To  think  that  I  should  be  so  taken  in  by 
another  woman;  to  think  that  I  couldn't  see 
through  her— the  minx!" 

Fresh  light  broke  upon  her  as  she  reflected. 

"That  letter  to  Harvey,"  she  said  with  tardy 
comprehension,  "was  only  to  find  out  about 


282         THE    POSTMISTRESS 

Ben,  and  when  she  talked  to  me  and  asked 
questions,  I  thought  it  was  Harvey  that  she 
was  interested  in.  And  Ben  tried  to  make  me 
help  him  out,  too,  by  making  me  jealous  of 
Harvey;  I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  Ben." 

With  one  last  sigh  vanished  forever  her  de- 
lusion that  Ben  Perry  had  been  her  lover.  She 
had  been  the  tool  and  the  victim  all  around, 
but  if  she  had  not  opened  those  letters  she 
would  have  been  spared  so  much — that  thought 
would  not  leave  her. 

Just  at  that  moment  Harvey  Carter  stepped 
into  the  little  sitting-room  where  she  was  at 
work,  and  seated  himself  at  her  side. 

"Now,  Emmy,"  he  said,  with  satisfaction  in 
his  voice,  "I  have  got  that  postponed  job  of 
threshing  done,  and  all  the  other  jobs  that  have 
waited,  and  I  am  over  to  say  that  I've  got  to 
see  you  of tener  than  I  have  for  two  months  or 
my  constitution  will  give  way.  I  have  been 
homesick  for  you." 

He  looked  at  her  beamingly,  with  total  un- 
consciousness of  past  or  present  offense.  Em- 
eline  was  dazed  for  a  moment,  then  recovered 
herself  and  thought  rapidly.  Evidently  he 


283 

had  not  received,  or  at  least  had  not  read,  her 
note  of  dismissal.  When  he  did  read  it  he 
would  think  she  was  mourning  for  Ben  Perry, 
and  that  her  disappointment  led  her  to  write 
the  epistle.  She  excused  herself  on  some  pre- 
text, entered  the  post-office  and  looked  in  Car- 
ter's box.  The  letter  was  still  there,  and  again 
she  took  advantage  of  her  official  position  to 
trespass  on  private  property ;  she  put  it  in  her 
pocket.  This,  she  would  say,  however,  was  a 
very  different  case  from  the  first, — and  of 
course  it  was. 

"Now,"  she  thought,  "I  can  send  it  again 
when  I  please.  But  I  must  know  if  he  has 
heard  of  Ben's  marriage,  and  since  Kitty  is 
gone,  he  is  coming  back  to  me  as  if  nothing  had 
happened." 

Harvey  stared  when  she  told  him,  looked 
foolish  for  a  moment,  then  slapped  his  knee 
with  a  resounding  thwack,  and  laughed  up- 
roariously— two  inelegant  acts  that  proper 
Miss  Emeline  would  freely  have  reproved  him 
for  under  other  circumstances. 

"That  was  her  little  game,  was  it?"  he 
said.  "I  couldn't  quite  get  on  to  it.  For  a 
spell  I  thought  she  meant  me,  but  I  guess  she 


284          THE    POSTMISTRESS 

only  used    me  for  a  bait  for  higher  game. 
She's  a  deep  one." 

And  he  laughed  again  with  a  ring  of  gen- 
uine mirth  in  his  voice  which  showed  that  his 
feelings  were  not  deeply  touched  by  the  duplic- 
ity of  the  Greenbush  beauty. 

"Yes,  I  heard  that  you  were  very  devoted  to 
her  this  summer,"  said  Emeline  with  a  sarcastic 
inflection. 

"Well,  you  see,  Em,"  he  said  quizzically, 
"you  had  snubbed  me  to  such  a  degree,  and  had 
given  me  to  understand  that  I  might  change 
my  mind  if  I  wished,  that  maybe  I  was  experi- 
menting a  little;  but  it  was  no  go.  I  would 
rather  have  you  and  the  snubbing — why — why, 
Emmy,  what  is  it?" 

Poor  Emmy  had  lost  her  boasted  self-con- 
trol at  last,  and  was  crying  with  her  head  upon 
the  table. 

"Emmy,  little  sweetheart!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  straightened  up. 

"Don't  call  me  little  sweetheart  ever  again," 
she  said  sharply;  "I  can  not  endure  it." 

"I  will  call  you  anything  you  wish.  There, 
there !  Don't  cry  any  more." 

And  unrebuked  this  time,  he  comforted  her 


THE    POSTMISTRESS          285 

and  dried  her  tears  after  the  manner  of  lovers 
the  wide  world  over. 

She  had  her  lover  back,  hers  now  forever; 
she  had  suffered  no  exposure  or  outward  pen- 
alty for  her  dishonorable  opening  of  those  let- 
ters ;  but  even  at  this  moment,  when  she  feared 
no  rival  and  her  heart  throbbed  with  gladness 
of  love  triumphant,  a  pang  lingered. 

"I  can  never  tell  him  in  this  world  why  he 
must  not  call  me  sweetheart,  never.  Oh!  why 
did  I  touch  the  letters?  A  man  is  so  rigid 
about  such  matters;  he  would  never  forgive  me 
— he  would  not  understand." 

Looking  down  the  vista  of  summer  days  she 
saw  a  canker  at  the  heart  of  the  rose.  For  de- 
spite her  determination  to  keep  silence,  she 
knew  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  being  truly 
feminine,  that  sometime  she  must  confess,  and 
she  did  not  yet  know  man  well  enough  to  be 
aware  that  he  is  ready  grandly  and  graciously 
to  forgive  sins  committed  for  his  sake  and 
through  which  he  suffers  no  ill. 


KATHARINE  CLARK'S  STORY 

KATHARINE  CLARK  had  fully  and 
finally  made  up  her  mind  to  leave  her 
husband.  The  thought  of  such  a  proceeding 
had  come  to  her  suddenly  some  months  before, 
creating  a  shock  of  disapproval  as  when  some 
other  person  offended  her  sense  of  propriety. 
She  put  the  idea  out  of  her  mind,  but  it  re- 
turned persistently  and  soon  she  found  herself 
opposing  it  no  longer,  but  considering  it  seri- 
ously. 

She  was  very  conventional  and  had  been 
reared  in  the  strict  school  of  behavior  that  re- 
gards a  breach  of  social  regulations  and  deco- 
rum as  hardly  less  than  a  crime.  Her  world 
was  small  but  its  rules  were  rigid,  so  that  she 
hesitated  at  the  thought  of  going  contrary  to 
its  opinions  and  prejudices,  even  though  her 
conscience  did  not  reprove  her  in  the  least. 

But  the  suggestion  tempted  her;  it  offered 
a  solution  of  all  her  troubles;  it  opened  the 
way  for  her  to  live  her  own  life  and  bring  it  to 

286 


KATHARINE    CLARK          287 

its  highest  development,  which  she  had  thor- 
oughly convinced  herself  she  could  never  do 
as  the  wife  of  Doctor  John  Clark.  She  was 
twenty-four  years  old  and  she  had  been  married 
nearly  three  years.  The  marriage  itself  was  an 
event  for  which  she  had  made  no  provision  in 
the  plan  of  life  that  she  had  somewhat  vaguely 
outlined  during  her  school  years.  Of  course, 
she  had  had  her  occasional  romantic  fancies,  as 
all  girls  do,  but  they  were  of  a  purely  abstract 
character  and  had  never  invested  any  particu- 
lar individual  with  the  charms  which  com- 
mended him  as  a  possible  husband.  She  would 
marry  sometime,  she  supposed; — most  women 
did — but  that  time  was  a  long  and  indefinite 
way  off,  and  meanwhile  she  had  so  much  to 
accomplish. 

The  truth  was  that  she  lived  a  purely  intel- 
lectual life,  as  far  as  such  a  thing  is  compati- 
ble with  the  attention  to  physical  being  de- 
manded by  civilized  existence.  Her  father, 
Phineas  Apthorpe,  was  a  professor  of  ancient 
languages  in  one  of  the  minor  New  England 
colleges;  his  father  before  him  had  been  a 
teacher;  his  grandfather  and  great-grand- 
father Congregational  ministers  with  reputa- 


288         KATHARINE    CLARK 

tions  for  much  learning.  Her  father  had  nev- 
er ceased  to  regret  that  he  had  no  son  to  sus- 
tain the  Apthorpe  name  in  the  educational 
career,  which  he  held  to  be  the  most  honorable 
and  the  most  greatly  to  be  desired  of  all  that 
could  be  named.  Not  having  the  son,  he  took 
Katharine,  his  only  daughter,  in  hand,  and 
early  accustomed  her  to  the  idea  that  the  best 
the  world  contains  is  in  books.  She  was  reared 
in  an  atmosphere  of  books,  and  under  her 
father's  guidance  became  a  much  more  earnest 
and  satisfactory  student  than  were  the  college 
boys  who  tried  his  soul  with  their  frivolous 
behavior. 

Katharine  might  have  given  way  to  more  of 
the  natural  levity  of  youth  had  it  not  been  for 
her  mother's  influence. 

Mrs.  Apthorpe  was  one  of  those  women  of 
frail  physique  and  tremendous  activity  of 
mind  so  often  found  in  New  England.  She, 
too,  wished  Katharine  to  be  highly  educated, 
but  not  precisely  for  the  same  reason  enter- 
tained by  the  professor.  She  had  herself  en- 
joyed but  few  educational  advantages  except 
such  as  had  come  to  her  in  later  life  through 
reading  and  association  with  bookish  people; 


KATHARINE   CLARK         289 

but  she  had  longed  for  them  exceedingly  arid, 
after  the  human  custom  with  unattainable 
things,  had  placed  an  exaggerated  value  upon 
them.  As  she  saw  the  opportunities  opening 
to  women  with  the  growth  of  a  more  liberal 
and  enlightened  sentiment,  she  determined 
that  her  daughter  should  have  all  that  she  had 
missed.  So  she  spurred  the  girl  up  to  her  stud- 
ies and  never  encouraged  her  participation  in 
the  gaieties  of  the  young  people  of  the  town. 
As  a  consequence  Katharine  led  a  rather  iso- 
lated lif e. 

There  was  no  purpose  on  the  part  of  her  par- 
ents to  deprive  her  of  any  necessary  thing,  but 
their  own  lives  were  narrow;  they  did  not  real- 
ize that  a  knowledge  of  literature  and  of  his- 
tory and  of  sciences  is  by  itself  but  an  incom- 
plete equipment;  or  that  a  development  of 
social  and  moral  qualities  to  be  gained  by  con- 
tact with  people  is  equally  essential  to  a  round- 
ed character.  They  had  but  little  social  diver- 
sion themselves,  taking  part  in  the  festivities 
incident  to  college  life  only  when  unavoidable. 
Katharine  had  no  interest  in  college  students, 
her  position  as  a  professor's  daughter  prevent- 
ing any  possible  illusions  in  regard  to  them, 


290         KATHARINE    CLARK 

but  on  the  contrary  creating  a  mild  scorn.  She 
had  no  intimates  among  other  girls,  her  ac- 
knowledged superiority  of  education  raising  a 
slight  barrier  between  them  which  she  did  noth- 
ing to  overcome.  The  so-called  intellectually 
superior  girl,  usually  quite  aware  of  her  supe- 
riority, is  seldom  a  favorite,  perhaps  on  ac- 
count of  that  self-consciousness. 

When  she  was  eighteen,  by  a  careful  man- 
ipulation of  the  family  income  and  some  paren- 
tal sacrifices,  Katharine  was  sent  to  Smith  Col- 
lege. Here  she  naturally  gravitated  to  the 
class,  not  often  very  large  even  in  schools  for 
women's  higher  education,  whose  first  and  last 
object  is  mental  improvement. 

As  it  happened,  she  fell  under  the  direct 
influence  of  a  teacher  of  strong  personality 
who  had  a  hobby.  Miss  Norris  never  ceased 
to  rejoice  that  this  twentieth  century  is  the 
woman's  century,  and  in  season  and  out  of  sea- 
son, early  and  late,  she  enjoined  upon  the  girls 
in  her  charge  the  duty  of  taking  advantage  of 
their  opportunities  for  mind  development. 
"It  is  your  duty  to  yourself  and  the  world," 
she  would  say,  "to  grow.  Feed  your  intellect 
upon  the  finest  food  and  the  product  will  be  in 


KATHARINE    CLARK         291 

kind.  Prove  to  the  world  that  woman's  mind  is 
equal  to  the  greatest.  Give  your  individuality 
free  and  full  scope.  Marriage  sometimes, 
nay,  often,  hinders  woman's  mental  growth.  I 
would  not  advise  against  marriage,  young 
ladies,  but  have  a  care  when  you  come  to  con- 
sider the  subject  lest  it  prove  a  hindrance  to 
your  progress." 

Frivolous  students  spoke  disrespectfully  of 
Miss  Norris  as  "Old  Mentality,"  and  inquired 
with  affected  solicitude  as  to  the  sproutings  of 
one  another's  intellects;  but  upon  Katharine 
Apthorpe  the  exhortations  made  due  impres- 
sion. 

When  she  had  been  in  college  nearly  three 
years  her  father  died,  and  she  went  home  to 
find  her  mother's  health  broken  and  her  condi- 
tion such  as  to  demand  the  daughter's  constant 
attention.  It  was  here,  in  her  mother's  sick 
room,  that  she  met  Doctor  Clark.  He  fell  in 
love  with  her  without  loss  of  time.  With  all  the 
important  problems  in  human  economy  yet 
awaiting  solution  it  is  never  worth  while  to 
spend  time  in  speculating  upon  the  reasons  that 
lead  any  given  man  to  fall  in  love  with  and 
marry  any  given  woman,  or  vice  versa.  In  this 


292         KATHARINE    CLARK 

case  Katharine's  pretty  face  was  explanation 
enough  for  the  curious,  and  doubtless  the  in- 
sight of  a  lover  discovered  more  charms  and 
virtues  than  were  visible  to  the  casual  observer. 

As  for  her  feelings,  she  was  pleased.  Be- 
sides her  father,  she  had  not  known  any  man 
well.  Doctor  Clark  was  handsome ;  he  was  ten 
years  older  than  herself — a  clear  recommenda- 
tion to  a  girl  not  fond  of  boys;  furthermore, 
she  was  not  so  loftily*  intellectual  but  that  she 
perceived,  and  was  rather  gratified  by,  the  envy 
excited  in  the  breasts  of  other  girls  of  her  ac- 
quaintance by  her  conquest. 

Her  mother,  who  had  always  ignored  the 
question  of  marriage  and  had  encouraged  her 
to  take  up  the  teacher's  calling  as  a  life-work, 
now  changed  her  attitude  and  urged  upon  her 
the  advisability  of  matrimony.  The  mother 
knew  that  no  money  was  left  to  continue  the 
girl's  education  in  foreign  universities,  or  else- 
where, to  the  point  which  would  fit  her  for  the 
position  of  instructor  in  a  higher  institution  of 
learning — for  it  was  not  as  a  teacher  of  a  mere 
grammar  school  that  Professor  Apthorpe's 
daughter  had  been  intended.  Katharine  was 


KATHARINE    CLARK          293 

flattered  by  Doctor  Clark's  preference;  she 
liked  him,  she  thought  she  loved  him,  and  when 
he  asked  her  to  be  his  wife  she  accepted  him. 
They  were  married  at  her  mother's  bedside, 
thereby  adding  greatly  to  that  lady's  peace  of 
mind  in  her  last  days,  which  came  to  an  end 
shortly  after. 

The  wedded  pair  lived  on  for  three  years  in 
the  same  town  and  with  but  little  variety  in  the 
routine  of  their  lives.  It  had  not  taken  Kath- 
arine that  length  of  time  to  discover  that  she 
was  dissatisfied.  She  had  omitted  no  feature 
of  what  she  conceived  to  be  her  wifely  duty. 
She  looked  after  her  husband's  physical  com- 
fort as  she  had  seen  and  helped  her  mother  do 
for  her  father.  She  kept  his  clothing  in  order, 
saw  that  his  meals  were  properly  prepared, 
and  entertained  his  friends  when  he  brought 
them  to  the  house.  All  her  leisure  hours  were 
taken  up  with  study  and  reading.  She  be- 
longed to  a  private  class  which  studied  German 
literature  and  philosophy  under  the  guidance 
of  a  retired  professor,  to  another  which  was 
delving  into  that  rather  large  topic,  the  his- 
tory of  civilization;  now  and  then  she  dipped 


294          KATHARINE    CLARK 

into  Greek  and  Latin  classics  by  way  of  prac- 
tise, and  for  recreation  read  Renan  in  the 
original. 

The  woman's  club  epidemic  had  struck  the 
quiet  college  town  in  all  its  fury,  and  she  was 
a  shining  light  in  several  of  these  literary  sym- 
posiums. No  one  could  present  a  more  elab- 
orate collection  of  facts  than  she;  or  a  better 
summary  of  some  learned  philosopher's  views. 
The  facts,  it  is  true,  mostly  belonged  to  a  time 
long  past,  and  the  philosophy  was  not  practi- 
cal, but  she  felt  that  she  was  gaining  culture. 

Doctor  Clark  all  this  time?  He  was  busy 
with  his  patients.  He  had  a  good  many  of  them 
altogether,  though  a  large  proportion  were 
not  profitable  from  a  financial  standpoint. 

Over  in  Newtown,  the  manufacturing  vil- 
lage just  across  the  river,  there  was  always 
sickness,  and  Doctor  Clark  had,  somehow,  be- 
come a  favorite  with  the  Irish  and  Canadian 
factory-hands.  There  was  a  time  when  he  used 
to  talk  of  his  cases  to  Katharine,  but  she  looked 
at  him  with  uncomprehending  wonder  over  his 
interest  in  people  of  that  class. 

"Katharine,"  he  said  one  day  after  she  had 
received  with  her  usual  unresponsiveness  a 


KATHARINE    CLARK         295 

pathetic  story  of  an  Irishwoman's  hrave  fight 
with  death  for  her  children's  sake;  "Katha- 
rine, I  do  not  want  you  to  become  acquainted 
with  painful  sights  and  subjects,  but  I  do  wish 
you  could  visit  some  of  the  mill  people  over 
there  and  see  their  lives.  It  would  do  you 
good ;  you  know  too  little  of  the  world." 

She  grew  fairly  rigid  with  astonishment. 

"I  could  not  visit  them"  she  said  with  an 
emphasis  that  showed  firm  conviction  and  utter 
lack  of  sympathy. 

The  exclusiveness  of  the  social  class  to  which 
she  belonged,  based  as  it  is  on  pride  of  intellect, 
pride  of  family  and  narrowness  of  outlook,  is 
of  an  intensity  to  which  the  aristocracy  of  mon- 
ey bears  no  comparison.  She  had  a  feeling  that 
she  was  of  another  order  of  being  from  the 
people  over  the  river. 

The  doctor  never  talked  to  her  of  his  pa- 
tients now,  but  grew  more  absorbed  in  his  work, 
and  the  expression  of  his  face  had  become 
weary  and  sad.  This  absorption  she  com- 
plained of  to  herself.  She  discovered  in  him 
no  sympathy  with  her  intellectual  pursuits. 
When  she  talked  of  Hegelian  philosophy  he 
was  apt  to  fall  asleep,  and  when  she  would  like 


296          KATHARINE    CLARK 

his  opinion  as  to  the  proper  translation  of  a 
knotty  Greek  passage  he  was  deep  in  his  daily 
paper,  though  he,  too,  had  had  a  university 
training  and  was  presumably  more  or  less  fa- 
miliar with  dead  languages.  Katharine  sel- 
dom looked  at  the  newspapers.  She  held  them 
to  be  frivolous  and  unworthy  the  attention  of 
serious-minded  people,  and  their  defective  lit- 
erary style  pained  her.  Thoreau  had  said  that 
he  did  not  read  the  times  but  the  eternities,  and 
she  considered  that  an  admirable  thought. 

Gradually  the  conviction  grew  upon  her 
that  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  marrying.  The 
time  had  come,  as  it  must  come  to  all  earnest 
natures,  when  it  was  not  enough  to  absorb 
knowledge;  there  arose  the  desire  to  create,  to 
do,  to  accomplish  something  definite  and  tan- 
gible. This  instinct  first  manifested  itself  in  a 
restlessness  and  a  vague  discontent,  which  final- 
ly found  expression  in  a  suggestion  to  her  hus- 
band that  they  should  remove  to  some  larger 
city. 

"It  takes  a  long  time  for  a  physician  to  be- 
come established  in  a  large  city,"  he  said  to  her 
in  reply,  "and  I  am  afraid  you  would  not  enjoy 
yourself  there  as  the  wife  of  a  poor  man-.  Here, 


KATHARINE    CLARK          297 

everybody  is  more  on  an  equality.  I  ought  to 
make  more  money  for  you  as  it  is,"  he  went  on 
regretfully.  "You  would  like  having  all  the 
luxuries  and  would  adorn  a  rich  man's  home; 
but,  somehow,  Katharine,  I  can't  squeeze  the 
poor  devils  at  the  mills  for  the  last  cent  of  my 
fees  when  it  is  taking  the  very  bread  out  of  the 
babies'  mouths." 

She  said  no  more,  but  her  sense  of  having 
been  injured  by  fate  grew  rapidly.  She  would 
like  wealth,  and  thought  a  little  contemptu- 
ously of  men  who  could  not  or  did  not  care  to 
acquire  it. 

Deep  in  her  mind  lurked  the  belief  that  if 
she  but  had  opportunity  she  could  at  least  earn 
all  the  money  she  wanted,  if  not  more.  Just 
how  it  was  to  be  done  she  did  not  know;  not  by 
teaching,  that  was  certain.  Her  tastes,  never 
very  favorable  to  the  career  chosen  for  her  by 
her  parents,  had  turned  strongly  against  it; 
but  surely,  she  thought,  in  calm  self-confidence, 
a  woman  of  her  qualifications  need  not  seek 
far  to  find  her  place.  She  would  like  to  try 
her  fortune.  She  favored  a  literary  career,  and 
considered  it  most  easily  followed.  But  she 
must  get  away  by  herself  in  order  to  enter 


298         KATHARINE    CLARK 

upon  it.  The  constant  association  with  one  so 
out  of  sympathy  with  her  aspirations  and  un- 
dertakings as  her  husband  she  felt  to  be  de- 
structive of  high  ideas;  it  dragged  her  down. 
Her  individuality  did  not  have  free  play;  she 
wanted  to  develop. 

Her  mind  dwelt  upon  this  subject  until  it 
became  her  one  idea;  but  not  a  whisper  of  such 
thoughts  escaped  her  lips.  Doctor  Clark's  little 
personal  peculiarities  began  to  irritate  her.  He 
twisted  the  ends  of  his  mustache  in  his  moments 
of  abstraction  until  she  grew  nearly  frantic 
with  nervousness.  His  undignified  habit  of 
wearing  his  soft  felt  hat  pushed  back  on  his 
head  annoyed  her  as  it  had  never  done  before. 
She  came  to  have  great  compassion  for  herself 
as  a  victim  of  unhappy  circumstances.  What 
her  husband  might  suffer  should  he  love  her 
she  did  not  consider.  He  had  said  he  loved 
her,  and  might,  therefore,  be  expected  to  have 
some  regrets  at  separation;  but  she  did  not 
comprehend  love,  and  consequently  did  not 
trouble  herself  with  this  phase  of  the  matter. 
A  knowledge  of  love  is  not  found  in  books.  If 
she  had  had  a  child  it  might  have  opened  the 


KATHARINE    CLARK          299 

sealed  fountains  of  her  affection,  but  none  had 
been  born  to  her. 

At  last  the  way  unexpectedly  opened  for  the 
carrying  out  of  her  half -formed  plans,  and  they 
quickly  became  definite.  Doctor  Clark  was 
summoned  to  Indiana  by  the  death  of  an  uncle, 
also  a  physician,  who  had  bequeathed  to  him  all 
his  property,  consisting  mainly  of  some  build- 
ings in  the  town  of  Kokomo  and  a  farm  in 
another  county.  After  a  few  days'  absence  he 
wrote  to  her  that  he  was  so  pleased  with  the  pro- 
fessional prospect  that  he  had  about  decided  to 
go  into  practise  there  and  only  waited  her  con- 
sent to  the  plan.  Business  would  detain  him  a 
few  days,  when  he  would  return  to  Oldtown, 
and  if  her  decision  was  favorable,  they  would 
thereafter  make  Indiana  their  home.  He 
wrote  in  a  cheerful  buoyant  strain,  with  ap- 
parently no  doubt  that  from  the  advantages 
and  benefits  he  outlined  she  would  be  con- 
vinced of  the  wisdom  of  the  move.  Here  was 
her  opportunity.  The  provocation,  she 
thought,  was  sufficient.  He  had  refused  to  go 
to  a  city,  but  he  was  ready  to  drag  her  into 
what  was,  of  course,  a  crude,  half-civilized 


300         KATHARINE    CLARK 

western  town.  She  had  never  seen  or  heard 
of  Kokomo  before,  but  she  was  sure  it  could 
have  no  possible  attractions  for  her.  She 
would  not  see  it.  She  would  go  away. 

So  there  she  sat  that  morning,  writing  a  let- 
ter whose  information  would  come  with  a  shock 
to  the  unsuspecting  husband.  She  had  had 
some  doubts  as  to  the  best  method  of  proced- 
ure, but  by  a  rare  chance  she  had  looked  at  the 
newspaper  that  morning  and  had  read  two 
stories  that  served  as  a  warning  of  what  not 
to  do.  One  told  of  a  woman  of  high  social 
standing  who  had  mysteriously  left  home, 
leaving  no  word,  and  was  supposed  to  have 
been  suddenly  smitten  with  insanity,  or  to  have 
met  with  foul  play;  but  the  notoriety  of  a 
search  had  developed  hints  of  a  scandalous 
escapade.  Another  woman,  with  presumably 
the  happiest  of  domestic  relations,  who  had  un- 
accountably disappeared,  was  found  drowned. 

"Nobody  knows  how  unhappy  those  women 
were,"  said  Mrs.  Clark  to  herself.  "They 
probably  could  endure  their  homes  no  longer. 
But  there  shall  be  no  scandalous  notoriety  and 
no  dragging  of  the  river  for  me."  So  she 


KATHARINE    CLARK          301 

wrote  a  letter  with  deliberation  and  read  it 
over  approvingly: 

"DOCTOR  CLARK: 

"You  must  have  realized  long  ago  that  our 
marriage  was  a  mistake  and  that  we  are  en- 
tirely unsuited  to  each  other.  I  am  so  well 
convinced  of  this  that  I  think  it  useless  to  con- 
tinue longer  the  attempt  to  adjust  our  inhar- 
monious natures  to  each  other.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve it  right  that  a  woman  should  be  bound 
for  life  by  fetters  that  prevent  the  free  expan- 
sion of  her  talents  and  of  her  best  self.  I  must 
be  free  and  I  am  going  away.  I  shall  not  tell 
you  where,  though  I  think  you  will  hardly  care 
to  find  me.  You  need  have  no  anxiety  about 
my  welfare.  I  have  drawn  from  the  bank  the 
money  that  was  mother's,  and  before  this  is 
gone  I  shall  be  able  to  provide  for  myself.  I 
have  not  mentioned  my  plans  to  any  one,  and 
you  will  have  no  questions  to  answer  when  you 
return  to  settle  up  your  affairs.  People  will 
suppose  I  have  gone  to  join  you.  I  hope  you 
will  be  happy  in  your  new  life  in  Kokomo.  It 
was  impossible  that  I  should  go  there.  I  thank 
you  for  your  good  intentions  and  for  your 
kindness  toward  me  in  the  three  years  since  I 
have  known  you. 

"Good-by, 

"KATHARINE." 

It  was  a  cold-blooded  letter,  a  selfish  cruel 
letter;  but  Katharine  was  pleased  with  it  and 


302          KATHARINE    CLARK 

sent  it  on  its  way.  Then  she  packed  her  trunks, 
said  good-by  to  a  few  friends,  and  departed 
from  Oldtown.  After  long  reflection  she  had 
determined  to  go  to  Chicago.  To  be  sure  it 
was  western  and  lacking  in  culture,  and  Ko- 
komo  was  not  far  away  (she  looked  the  place 
up  on  the  map),  but  her  husband  would  never 
dream  of  her  being  there.  If  he  searched  for 
her  it  would  be  in  New  York  or  Boston,  and 
she  would  prefer  not  to  meet  him.  In  the  lat- 
ter cities,  too,  there  was  always  the  chance 
of  encountering  some  Oldtown  acquaintance. 
After  a  while  she  would  not  care,  she  thought, 
but  just  now  the  force  of  conventionalities  was 
strong  and  she  wished  to  answer  no  questions. 

The  next  chapter  of  Katharine's  life  opened 
in  a  Chicago  boarding-house,  which  proffered 
all  the  comforts  of  a  home  for  a  good  round 
sum  per  week;  and  as  the  landlady  assured 
each  newcomer,  was  very  select  as  to  the  char- 
acter of  its  inmates.  Katharine's  admission 
had  been  obtained  by  means  of  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction obtained  on  a  plausible  pretext  some- 
time before  from  her  old  teacher,  Miss  Norris, 
who  had  once  stayed  at  the  house  when  in  the 


303 

city  as  a  delegate  to  a  convention  to  elevate 
Woman. 

After  the  first  confusion  wrought  in  her  un- 
accustomed mind  by  the  rush  of  a  great  city 
had  passed  away,  Katharine  was  fascinated 
with  Chicago.  Its  hurrying  throngs,  its  push 
and  eagerness  and  energy,  whose  contagion 
none  can  wholly  escape,  exhilarated  her  like 
wine.  The  pulsating  vigor  was  akin  to  youth 
and  roused  her  heart  to  responsive  throbs.  It 
was  life  in  its  fullest  fiercest  flow;  intoxicat- 
ing life  that  drew  into  its  current  all  who  ven- 
tured near  and  swept  them  irresistibly  on. 
Katharine  exulted  at  finding  herself  even  on 
the  eddying  borders  of  this  wonderful  stream, 
and  longed  for  the  time  when  she  could  plunge 
in  and  become  a  part  of  it. 

She  was  too  reticent  and  too  much  of  a 
stranger  to  speak  of  her  impressions  to  her  new 
boarding-house  acquaintances,  but  she  freely 
confided  her  thoughts  and  her  delight  to  paper. 
The  inspiration  of  the  restless  energy  about 
her  soon  spurred  her  to  activity.  Idleness  and 
aimlessness  palled.  She  formulated  her  hith- 
erto vague  literary  plans  and  proceeded  to 
carry  them  out.  She  had  already  on  hand  sev- 


304          KATHARINE    CLARK 

eral  manuscript  essays  and  literary  studies  pro- 
duced within  the  year,  and  these  she  now  sent 
out  to  various  eastern  periodicals.  Having  des- 
patched her  manuscripts,  she  devoted  herself  to 
the  work  of  preparing  more.  It  began  to  be 
whispered  about  the  boarding-house  that  Mrs. 
Clark  was  a  literary  woman — a  writer  for  the 
magazines.  It  detracted  nothing  from  her  dis- 
tinction that  bulky  envelopes  frequently  came 
to  her  bearing  publishers'  trade-marks.  Curi- 
ous fellow  boarders  who  happened  to  see  her 
mail  on  the  hall  table  did  not  know  what  the 
packages  contained;  or,  if  they  did  suspect 
rejected  contributions,  were  apt  to  assume  that 
others  had  been  accepted.  The  mere  fact  of 
correspondence  with  great  publishers  and 
magazine  editors  was,  to  the  mind  of  the  un- 
initiated, sufficient  proof  of  authorship. 

But  the  manuscripts  came  back,  one  after 
another.  The  North  American  Review  deeply 
regretted  that  it  did  not  find  her  paper  on 
"Intellectual  Detachment"  available  for  its 
use;  the  Century  Magazine  repectfully  de- 
clined "Shakespeare's  Women";  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  had  on  hand  such  an  abundance  of 
verse  that  it  could  not  find  use  for  her  "Ode  to 


KATHARINE    CLARK          305 

Pallas  Athena";  the  Harpers  were  unable,  in 
the  press  of  matter,  to  find  room  for  her  essay 
on   "The   Intellectual   Future   of  Woman". 
And  so  it  went.     She  had  thought  that  pub- 
lishers would  be  glad  to  have  contributions  of 
a  serious  and  thoughtful  character,  but  it  be- 
gan to  look  as  if  they  were  unappreciative  of 
such  efforts.    There  was  hardly  an  issue  of  a 
magazine  which  did  not  contain  matter  that  she 
considered  far  inferior  to  hers — that,  in  fact, 
was  positively  trivial.    The  rejections  were  dis- 
couraging.    Still,  she  would  not  be  utterly 
cast  down,  but  sent  out  a  fresh  instalment  of 
manuscripts  to  seek  their  fortune — and  hers. 
Among  them  was   one   entitled   "Notes   on 
Schopenhauer",  addressed  to  the  editor  of  the 
Sunday  Register,  of  Chicago.     This  venture 
was  due  to  the  suggestion  of  a  gushing  young 
lady  of  the  house  who  asked  her  why  she  did 
not  write  for  the  Register,  which  was  a  "per- 
fectly lovely"  paper,  "so  highly  literary,  you 
know."     Besides,  the  young  lady  had  heard 
that  it  paid  its  writers  better  than  any  other 

paper. 

Meanwhile,  another  little  enterprise  was  in- 
teresting her.    Among  the  highly  respectable 


30(5          KATHARINE    CLARK 

inmates  of  the  boarding-house  was  a  dapper 
and  agreeable  gentleman,  by  business  a  broker. 
Between  him  and  other  gentlemen  at  the  table 
was  a  great  deal  of  conversation  sprinkled  with 
such  expressions  as  "margins",  "futures", 
"puts  and  calls",  "corners",  "deals",  etc. — 
terms  that  meant  nothing  to  Katharine  until 
curiosity  led  her  to  seek  information.  There 
were  times  when  the  interest  in  the  broker's 
remarks  was  quite  intense  and  was  shared  by 
several  of  the  women.  After  a  while  Katha- 
rine learned  that  this  excitement  was  due  to 
the  probability  of  a  rise  in  wheat,  or  corn,  or 
pork,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  the  consequent 
probability  that  the  small  sums  which  the 
boarders  had  severally  entrusted  to  the  care  of 
broker  Jackson  for  investment  would  be  in- 
creased tenfold,  or  thereabouts.  As  it  chanced, 
the  broker's  judgment  was  correct  several 
times  in  succession,  and  Katharine,  once  com- 
prehending, caught  the  speculative  fever 
quickly. 

Such  was  her  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the 
sinful  contemporary  world  that  she  did  not 
know  that  dealing  in  margins  was  regarded 
by  many  moral  censors  of  the  community 


KATHARINE   CLARK         807 

as  'gambling  of  a  very  reprehensible  sort, 
nor  that  it  was  periodically  condemned  from 
the  pulpit.  If  she  had  been  warned  of  the 
moral  dangers  she  was  incurring  perhaps  it 
would  not  have  stayed  her  movements.  The 
true  heinousness  of  speculation  is  seldom  real- 
ized until  one  becomes  a  speculator — and  a 
loser.  Katharine  felt  sure  that  here  was  her 
opportunity  to  become  a  money-maker.  At 
first  she  proceeded  cautiously.  She  drew  one 
hundred  dollars  from  her  little  fund  and  put 
it  into  broker  Jackson's  hands.  He  had  had 
dealings  with  inexperienced  women  before, 
and  knowing  their  disposition  to  be  trouble- 
some if  matters  went  wrong,  warned  her  that 
loss  was  a  possibility.  She  assured  him  she 
would  accept  loss  philosophically  and  without 
complaint.  He  invested  her  one  hundred  dol- 
lars in  wheat ;  wheat  went  up ;  he  sold  it  at  the 
right  moment,  and  she  was  two  hundred  dol- 
lars richer.  She  reinvested,  and  was  again  on 
the  right  side  of  the  market.  Mr.  Jackson  then 
confidentially  informed  her  that  he  had  had  a 
"pointer"  from  one  of  the  inside  men  in  the 
deal;  that  a  "corner"  was  being  worked  up, 
that  wheat  would  take  a  big  jump  and  there 


308         KATHARINE    CLARK 

was  a  chance  for  her  to  make  a  pocketful  of 
money.  'She  put  the  original  one  hundred  and 
all  the  new  gains  into  the  broker's  hands. 
There  was  a  miscalculation  somehow;  the  cor- 
ner had  a  gap  in  it;  wheat  went  down  and 
down,  and  Katharine  was  poorer  than  in  the 
beginning.  About  this  time  she  went  to  church 
one  Sunday  and  heard  a  discourse  on  the  ex- 
ceeding wickedness  and  demoralizing  influence 
of  margin  gambling,  and  agreed  with  it  all. 

One  of  the  boarders  in  the  house  was  a  Mrs. 
Manton,  a  middle-aged  widow,  who  was  com- 
monly understood  to  have  a  "great  business 
head".  She  had  originally  a  small  capital 
which  she  was  said  to  have  increased  greatly 
by  judicious  investments  in  real  estate.  She 
had  warned  Katharine  of  the  risks  of  margin 
speculation,  telling  her  that  real  estate  was 
much  safer.  With  all  her  professed  belief  in 
the  equality  of  woman's  intellect  with  that  of 
man,  Katharine  had  preferred  the  financial 
opinions  of  the  man,  and  now  felt  that  she 
had  done  woman  an  injustice.  It  was,  there- 
fore, the  easier  for  Mrs.  Manton  to  convince 
her  of  the  advantages  of  investment  in  a  tract 
of  ground  over  in  South  Chicago.  She  had 


KATHARINE    CLARK         309 

private    and    positive    information   that    the 
Great  North   American   Car  Works,   which 
owned  ground  on  both  sides,  was  going  to 
build  its  shops  there  and,  of  course,  must  have 
the  intervening  tract.    She  was  anxious  to  help 
women  to  make  money  and  instead  of  selfishly 
profiting  alone  by  this  opportunity  she  had 
taken  twenty-three  women  with  her  into  the 
enterprise.    All  that  was  needed  for  the  first 
payment  was  twenty-five  hundred  dollars.    If 
Mrs.   Clark  would   become   the  twenty-fifth 
woman  in  the  syndicate  each  would  put  in 
one  hundred  dollars  and  inside  of  a  month, 
probably    within    a    week    they    would    sell 
at  their   own   price   and   at  least   quadruple 
their  investment.    It  was  a  very  plausible  and 
attractive  scheme.    Katharine,  with  some  mis- 
givings, gave  up  another  hundred  dollars,  only 
to  discover  in  a  few  days  not  only  that  the  car 
works  did  not  want  the  ground,  but  that  a  flaw 
had  developed  in  the  title  and  that  if  she  ever 
got  her  money  back  it  would  not  be  that  year. 
She  had  one  hundred  dollars  left,  and  the  sit- 
uation was  growing  critical.    It  had  suddenly 
become  necessary  for  her  to  find  some  lucrative 
occupation  with  as  little  delay  as  possible.  The 


310         KATHARINE    CLARK 

career  of  authorship  had  not  opened  with 
promise,  and  though  she  by  no  means  intended 
to  abandon  it,  it  must  give  way  for  the  present 
while  she  engaged  in  something  that  afforded 
more  immediate  returns.  Her  thoughts  first 
turned  to  teaching,  but  it  was  not  the  season 
for  engaging  teachers,  and  she  soon  learned 
that  she  could  hope  for  nothing  in  this  line 
without  proper  credentials.  These,  as  she  came 
to  know  later,  meant  the  recommendation  of 
some  councilman  or  other  citizen  with  what 
is  technically  known  as  a  "pull".  She  could 
bring  no  influence  to  bear.  To  be  sure,  there 
were  two  or  three  elderly  gentlemen  in  the  city, 
ministers  and  retired  professors,  who  had 
known  her  father;  but  she  could  not  apply  to 
them  because — well,  because  she  would  have  to 
tell  why  she  was  there  away  from  her  husband. 
Pride  and  an  instinctive  honesty  had  caused 
her  to  retain  her  married  name  and  would  pre- 
vent her  from  concealing  the  truth  if  she  had 
to  speak.  It  had  somehow  become  impressed 
upon  her  of  late  that  it  would  be  difficult  to 
tell  her  story  in  a  way  to  make  people  sym- 
pathize with  her  and  to  agree  that  she  was 
right.  If  her  husband  had  beaten  her,  or  had 


KATHARINE    CLARK         311 

been  'dissipated,  or  if  there  were  something 
more  definite  to  say  than  that  he  was  unsym- 
pathetic and  unappreciative,  it  would  be  dif- 
ferent. And  it  would  be  hard  to  make  every 
one  understand  how  maddening  the  habit  of 
twisting  his  mustache  and  running  his  fingers 
through  his  hair  could  be  in  a  man. 

The  next  month  was  a  period  to  which  Kath- 
arine never  liked  to  look  back.     She  spent  it 
in  searching  for  employment.     She  made  the 
rounds  of  bookstores,  publishing  houses,  libra- 
ries, offices  and  department  stores,  but  without 
success.     She  took  to  studying  the  advertise- 
ments in  the  daily  papers.    Women  seemed  to 
be  "wanted"  in  a  variety  of  occupations.  Some 
of  these   calls  she  answered.     Invariably  it 
turned  out  that  what  the  advertiser  wanted 
was,   first — experience,  and  last — experience. 
One  employer,  a  dry  goods  man,  upon  her  im- 
pulsive inquiry  as  to  how  any  one  was  ever  to 
gain  experience,  relented  sufficiently  to  say 
that  though  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  taking 
untrained    clerks    into    his   establishment   he 
might  make  an  exception  in  her  case,  as  she 
seemed  intelligent  and  active.    He  was  willing 
to  try  her  for  two  months  at  a  salary  of  three 


812         KATHARINE    CLARK 

dollars  a  week.  This  offer,  which  was  really 
made  in  kindness,  was  almost  rudely  refused 
by  the  applicant,  whose  mind  was  not  yet  ac- 
quainted with  that  intricate  problem  of  supply 
and  demand  in  the  business  world  and  its  bear- 
ing upon  wages.  Everywhere  she  met  with 
civility,  but  no  encouragement.  The  Amer- 
ican man  speedily  becomes  accustomed  to  the 
irruption  of  woman  into  business  pursuits  and 
treats  her  with  respect,  but  does  not  permit  any 
sentiment  attaching  to  her  sex  in  the  abstract 
to  interfere  with  considerations  of  profit  and 
loss.  This  is  as  it  should  be,  doubtless,  but 
Katharine  felt  that  women  were  somehow  at  a 
disadvantage  in  the  struggle  for  existence. 
One  man  whom  she  encountered  had  an  opin- 
ion on  this  point.  He  had  no  vacancies  in  his 
establishment — a  great  dry  goods  house — ex- 
cept in  the  dress-making  department.  He 
wanted  a  head  dress-maker — an  expert. 

"You  are  not  one,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
shrewdly;  "you  are  not  an  expert  of  any  sort, 
or  you  would  not  be  hunting  a  situation;  the 
situation  would  be  hunting  you."  Then,  in  a 
moment  of  expansiveness,  he  added,  "Women 
jeally  ought  not  to  have  to  earn  money,  but  if 


KATHARINE    CLARK          313 

they  must,  it  stands  them  in  hand  to  know  how 
to  do  at  least  one  thing  well.  To  tell  the  truth, 
a  woman  who  comes  in  competition  with  a  man 
ought  to  know  that  one  thing  better  than  the 
man  knows  it  to  be  on  an  equal  footing  with 
him,  as  business  goes." 

With  all  of  Katharine's  theoretical  interest 
in  women  she  did  not  look  to  them  first  in  her 
hour  of  need,  but  one  day  she  called  at  the 
office  of  an  organization  whose  loudly  heralded 
purpose  it  was  to  assist  women  to  take  care  of 
themselves.  A  severe-looking  person  at  a  desk 
listened  to  her  application  and  promptly  cate- 
chized her,  opening  a  formidable  book  in  which 
to  record  the  answers.  On  learning  that  the 
applicant  was  married,  that  her  husband  was 
neither  dissipated,  nor  immoral,  nor  a  helpless 
invalid,  the  severe  person  closed  her  book  with 
a  bang. 

"We  can  do  nothing  for  you.  I  should  ad- 
vise you  to  return  to  your  husband.  The  pur- 
pose of  our  society  is  to  provide  for  the  really 
needy  and  deserving." 

•Katharine's  face  burned  with  indignation  as 
she  went  away,  wondering  if  men  who  asked  for 
work  at  employment  agencies  were  compelled 


314         KATHARINE   CLARK 

to  give  certificates  of  moral  character  and  a 
history  of  their  domestic  affairs. 

Yet,  after  all,  it  was  a  woman  who  came  to 
her  rescue. 

The  one  member  of  the  household  with 
whom  she  had  formed  an  intimacy  was  a 
woman  a  little  older  than  herself  who  was  a 
physician.  Her  stately  serene  beauty  first  at- 
tracted Katharine,  and  a  nearer  acquaintance 
discovered  a  sweetness  and  strength  of  char- 
acter that  formed  a  winning  personality.  Doc- 
tor Carter,  or,  as  she  was  familiarly  known  to 
her  nearest  friends,  Doctor  Laura,  had  shown 
a  kindly  interest  in  Katharine  from  the  first, 
but  she  had  asked  no  questions ;  nor,  as  the  ac- 
quaintance progressed,  had  Katharine  entered 
into  any  confidences  beyond  a  mention  of  her 
wish  for  employment. 

The  women  who  tell  to  all  the  world  their 
innermost  thoughts  and  family  secrets  are 
many,  but  the  other  women  who  from  pride, 
timidity  and  other  reasons  keep  silence  when 
speech  would  benefit  them  and  clear  the  mists 
away  are  not  less  numerous. 

One  evening  Doctor  Laura  said  to  her: 
"The  managing  editor  of  the  Morning  Regis- 


KATHARINE    CLARK          315 

ter,  who  chances  to  be  a  friend  of  mine,  asked 
me  if  I  could  recommend  some  one  with  the 
patience  and  judgment  to  read  and  pass  upon 
the  merits  of  a  quantity  of  manuscript  stories 
which  have  come  to  the  paper  in  response  to  an 
offer  of  a  prize.  I  suggested  you.  If  you 
would  like  the  work  I  will  take  you  down  to- 
morrow afternoon  and  introduce  you." 

The  next  day  found  Katharine  at  a  dingy 
desk  in  a  more  dingy  little  room  in  the  office 
of  the  Register,  with  a  pile  of  manuscripts 
before  her.  Mr.  Fowler,  the  managing  editor, 
a  keen-eyed  person  with  a  nervous  incisive 
manner  of  speech,  had  given  her  brief  instruc- 
tions. 

"Not  necessary  to  read  more  than  a  page  or 
so  of  two-thirds  of  the  lot.  Bad  grammar  and 
idiocy  give  'em  away  at  the  start.  Out  of  the 
rest  save  a  dozen  of  the  best — best 'none  too 
good.  Committee  will  pass  on  dozen  and  se- 
lect three  for  prizes.  I'm  the  committee;  no 
time  to  waste  on  this  sort  of  foolishness.  Old 
man's  scheme  to  encourage  literary  talent  and 
to  increase  circulation." 

Subsequently  Katharine  learned  that  the 
"old  man"  was  the  proprietor,  and  that  each 


316          KATHARINE    CLARK 

member  of  the  staff,  from  the  office  boy  up, 
was  sure  he  could  give  him  valuable  instruc- 
tions on  how  to  run  a  newspaper. 

Before  she  had  worked  on  those  manuscripts 
two  days,  finding  only  three  in  that  time  that 
could  be  called  meritorious,  she  was  ready  to 
sympathize  with  "readers"  for  magazines 
whose  occupation  she  had  often  envied.  But 
she  did  not  drop  the  crudest  of  the  productions 
into  the  basket  of  "unavailables"  without  a 
sympathetic  pang  for  the  writer  whose  labor 
and  hopes  had  gone  into  it.  The  second  after- 
noon she  heard  a  somewhat  animated  conversa- 
tion in  the  managing  editor's  office,  near  whose 
open  door  her  desk  stood,  between  that  func- 
tionary and  a  brisk  young  man  who  was  ex- 
plaining with  irritation  that  the  society  re- 
porter, instead  of  attending  to  the  Mahoney- 
Connelly  wedding,  had  sent  word  that  she  was 
ill.  This  wedding,  it  appeared,  was  ordered 
by  the  "old  man"  to  be  written  up  with  unusual 
elaboration,  owing  to  intimate  business  rela- 
tions between  himself  and  the  father  of  the 
bride.  Then  there  was  a  lowering  of  voices,  a 
note  of  protest  from  the  younger  man,  with  a 


KATHARINE    CLARK          317 

whisper  of  "green  hands",  and  the  two  ap- 
proached Katharine. 

"Mrs.  Clark,  this  is  our  city  editor,  Mr. 
Jones.  He  wants  some  one  to  report  a  wed- 
ding, and  I  have  suggested  you.  Such  work  is 
not  to  he  written  in  the  style  of  your  'Notes 
on  Schopenhauer',  but  I  think  you  can  do  it. 
Mr.  Jones  will  instruct  you."  And  the  manag- 
ing editor  turned  away  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye. 

This  allusion  to  Schopenhauer  was  the  first 
intimation  she  had  had  that  he  recognized  her 
as  the  author  of  that  contribution,  which  she 
had  never  heard  of  after  it  was  sent  until  now, 
and  she  flushed  with  a  mixture  of  embarrass- 
ment and  indignation.  Her  resentment  over 
his  amusement  at  her  literary  offering  led  her 
to  a  ready  acceptance  of  this  new  undertaking. 
If  there  was  one  thing  more  than  another 
which  a  few  weeks  ago  she  would  have  chosen 
not  to  do,  and  that  she  would  have  thought  en- 
tirely beneath  her  dignity  and  abilities,  it  was 
society  reporting;  but  she  would  show  Mr. 
Fowler  that  she  could  do  one  thing  as  well  as 
another.  Because  she  wrote  philosophical  es- 


318          KATHARINE    CLARK 

says  was  no  reason  why  she  could  not  describe 
a  wedding  trousseau  acceptably.  Besides,  there 
was  the  other  consideration,  that  she  could  not 
afford  to  let  any  opportunity  for  respectable 
employment  go  by.  So,  before  she  had  time 
fairly  to  realize  the  situation,  she  was  on  a  sub- 
urban train  bound  for  the  residence  of  the  Hon- 
orable Patrick  Mahoney.  The  Mahoneys  were 
newly  rich;  they  were  vulgar  and  pretentious; 
but  the  veneering  was  not  deep  enough  to  hide 
an  honest  kindliness  of  soul,  and  in  spite  of 
her  sense  of  superiority  and  her  scorn  of  such 
people  in  general,  she  felt  her  heart  warm  to 
them,  and  when  the  bride  came  from  her  room 
and  whispered  to  her  as  she  was  being  shown 
the  wedding  gifts:  "Do  say  something  nice 
about  me;  his  folks  in  Peoria  take  the  Regis- 
ter'' it  was  a  touch  of  nature  that  prevented 
the  use  of  any  thread  of  satire  that  she  was 
disposed  to  weave  in — and  that  would,  by  the 
way,  have  been  promptly  stricken  out  by  the 
editor. 

By  eight  o'clock  she  was  at  her  desk.  Being 
slow  at  this  unaccustomed  work,  it  was  after 
eleven  before  her  report  was  finished.  Even 
then  she  did  not  have  time  to  read  the  pages 


KATHARINE    CLARK          319 

over  before  they  were  taken  by  the  editor  and 
passed  on  to  the  printer. 

Then  she  slipped  away  and  everybody  was 
too  busy  to  notice  when  she  went,  or  to  think 
that  she  might  be  timid  about  going  through 
the  streets  alone.  Fortunately,  owing  to  her 
freedom  and  sense  of  security  in  the  semi-rural 
New  England  town,  she  had  less  fear  than  if 
she  had  lived  all  her  life  in  Chicago.  She 
found  her  way  to  the  cars  and  went  home  to 
sleep  fitfully  after  this  eventful  day. 

The  wedding  report  appeared  next  morning 
under  a  series  of  head-lines,  and  Katharine 
read  it  with  deep  interest.  She  found  that  some 
alteration  had  been  made  in  the  text ;  some  ad- 
jectives had  been  stricken  out  and  one  entire 
paragraph  had  been  rewritten.  There  were 
several  typographical  errors  of  a  very  exasper- 
ating sort.  Typographical  errors  never  cease 
to  be  exasperating  to  the  victim,  but  time  and 
long  experience  deaden  the  sensibilities  some- 
what. There  were  some  sentences  of  awkward 
construction  that  made  her  shudder  and  which 
were  in  marked  contrast  to  the  carefully 
rounded  periods  of  her  magazine  contribu- 
tions. She  knew  it  was  because  she  had  had  no 


320          KATHARINE    CLARK 

time  to  revise,  but  those  who  read  the  account 
would  not  know  this  and  what  would  any  one 
think  who  knew  she  wrote  it?  So  began  her 
experience  as  a  newspaper  woman.  Long 
after,  she  learned  that  it  was  not  mere  accident, 
nor  the  impression  made  by  her  own  intelli- 
gence, as  she  had  sometimes  flattered  herself, 
which  had  led  her  to  employment,  but  the  per- 
sistence of  Doctor  Laura  Carter  in  urging 
editor  Fowler  to  give  her  a  trial. 

After  this  she  had  no  reason  to  complain  of 
idleness  or  monotony.  A  little  reflection  and  a 
careful  study  of  the  papers  had  given  her  a 
new  conception  of  the  fitness  of  things  and  of 
the  requirements  of  a  daily  press ;  and  as  a  re- 
sult she  placed  upon  the  editor's  desk  her  rhap- 
sody over  Chicago  written  soon  after  her  ar- 
rival. Then  she  wrote  a  chapter  of  her  experi- 
ence in  seeking  employment.  He  printed  them 
both  with  plentiful  head-lines  and  subheads 
and  spoke  of  them  to  her  approvingly. 

"That  is  the  sort  of  thing  we  want,"  he  said ; 
"live  things,  the  thoughts  and  doings  of  the 
day  we  live  in.  What  is  vague  German  phi- 
losophy, what  are  the  Greeks  or  other  ancients 
to  us?  It  is  well  enough  to  know  of  them  and 


KATHARINE    CLARK         321 

to  profit  by  their  wisdom,  but  they  lived  their 
lives  and  are  done.  We  are  living  ours,  mak- 
ing our  own  history  and  the  material  for  our 
own  epics  that  will  one  day  be  written  and  be 
classics  in  their  turn.  The  present  alone  is  ours, 
and  it  speaks  through  the  newspapers." 

The  society  reporter  resumed  her  duties,  but 
other  work  was  found  for  Katharine.  Her  ex- 
periences in  looking  for  work  and  some  recent 
philanthropic  discussions  over  woman's  wages, 
"sweat  shops",  etc.,  suggested  a  scheme  to  the 
editor.  He  would  send  a  reporter  among  these 
shops  and  factories  in  the  guise  of  an  employee 
and  have  their  workings  described  from  the  in- 
side. Katharine  was  willing  to  take  the  as- 
signment, though  she  hardly  understood  her 
own  readiness  and  even  eagerness.  Her  very 
correct  and  conventional  life  had  not  naturally 
led  up  to  an  enterprise  of  this  sort,  but  there 
was  something  in  its  uncertain  and  unknown 
possibilities  that  roused  a  spirit  of  adventure, 
not  unlike  that  felt  by  a  city-bred  man  in  a 
frontier  country  for  the  first  time. 

She  arrayed  herself  in  her  plainest  attire  an3 
sought  work  in  shops  where  cloaks  were  made, 
in  others  where  men's  coats  were  the  only  article 


322         KATHARINE    CLARK 

manufactured,  in  necktie  factories,  in  a  dozen 
and  one  places  where  women  were  found  and 
where  no  especial  skill  was  demanded.  In  each 
of  these  shops,  in  turn,  her  services  were  en- 
gaged. It  was  easy  enough  to  get  work  when 
she  was  not  anxious  as  to  its  character  or  its 
remuneration  as  in  her  former  attempts.  She 
stayed  in  each  place  long  enough  to  learn  the 
conditions  under  which  the  work  was  done  and 
skilfully  to  draw  out  the  opinions  of  the 
women  who  slaved  early  and  late  for  the  pit- 
tance that  just  saved  them  from  starvation  and 
kept  them  honest.  She  got  new  and  unex- 
pected views  of  human  nature  and  of  life  there. 
Six  months  before  she  would  have  felt  that 
there  was  little  in  common  between  herself  and 
these  women  who  were  ignorant  of  books,  who 
spent  their  days  in  hardest  labor  and  in  the 
struggle  for  existence  grew  old  before  their 
time.  Then,  like  the  poet,  she  had  "thought  it 
living  only  to  draw  her  breath";  now,  looking 
at  these,  she  knew  "life  meant  a  striving,  some- 
times even  to  death". 

Though  they  were  ignorant,  they  were  self- 
respecting  and  unselfish.  Few  of  them  but 
had  others  dependent  upon  them,  and  it  was 


KATHARINE    CLARK          323 

presently  borne  in  upon  Katharine  that  their 
industry  and  patience  and  endurance  were  be- 
cause of  the  love  they  bore  to  parents,  or  chil- 
dren, or  husbands.  Not  one  of  them  had  sev- 
ered her  family  bonds  as  Katharine  had  done. 
They  were  toil-worn  and  ill-clad,  and  often 
hungry,  and  to  cut  loose  from  all  ties  might 
have  benefited  them  in  many  ways,  but  they 
shirked  no  obligations  or  duties.  Katharine 
wrote  graphic  accounts  of  their  hard  life  and 
deprivations  and  held  up  to  public  scorn  the 
contractors  who  took  their  hearts'  blood  for 
pitiful  wages;  but  some  things  she  learned 
were  not  consigned  to  paper.  It  was  dawning 
upon  her  that  love  moves  the  world  and  makes 
life  worth  living,  and  that  she  had  thrown  love 
away.  She  learned  that  with  all  the  hardships 
of  these  toiling  women  they  were  not  wholly 
despairing  or  unhappy,  but  often  quite  the  re- 
verse, because  the  share  of  love  they  had  threw 
a  glamour  over  all  about  them  and  made  them 
careless  of  all  ills.  They  did  not  need  her  sym- 
pathy. 

Katharine  attended  the  meetings  of  the  Sal- 
vation Army  and  set  forth  the  proceedings  of 
those  grotesque  religionists  for  the  Register's 


324          KATHARINE    CLARK 

readers,  but  she  cast  no  ridicule  upon  them,  for 
she  discovered  the  earnestness  of  their  purpose 
and  their  honesty  of  conviction  under  all  their 
eccentricities.  After  this  her  occupation  was 
varied  by  a  tour  through  the  schools,  and  here 
she  was  back  in  her  original  element.  Her 
comments  and  criticisms  on  the  methods  and 
peculiarities  of  the  educational  system  were 
keen  and  sometimes  severe,  producing  a  sensa- 
tion that  caused  a  temporary  increase  in  the  cir- 
culation of  the  Register. 

She  interviewed  women  of  all  social  grades, 
from  popular  actresses  and  professional  re- 
formers to  police-matrons  and  the  miserable 
creatures  in  their  care.  She  accompanied  the 
agents  of  public  charities  in  their  investiga- 
tions among  the  poor  and  saw  wretchedness 
and  suffering  and  squalor  in  all  their  stages. 
Her  work  did  not  take  her  among  women  only, 
for  she  was  often  given  assignments  that 
brought  her  in  contact  with  business  and  pro- 
fessional and  laboring  men.  A  strike  of  street- 
car employees  afforded  her  an  insight  into  cer- 
tain phases  of  human  nature  such  as  she  had 
never  even  dreamed  of. 

The  months  went  by  until  a  year  and  a  half 


KATHARINE    CLARK          325 

had  gone  since  she  had  made  her  flight  into  the 
world.  In  all  that  time  she  had  heard  nothing 
from  her  husband.  Once,  shortly  after  she  had 
hegun  her  newspaper  work,  her  friend,  Doctor 
Laura,  startled  her  by  speaking  of  a  Doctor 
Clark,  who  had  lately  been  appointed  as  a  con- 
sulting physician  for  the  Great  Northern  Hos- 
pital, where  Doctor  Laura  had  been  an  interne 
and  was  now  on  the  visiting  staff. 

"Doctor  Clark!"  she  exclaimed  involunta- 
rily, and  then  added  with  aifected  carelessness: 
"I  wonder  if  he  is  a  relative  of  mine.  What 
does  he  look  like?" 

"He  is  a  tall  man  with  gray  hair  and 
smooth-shaven  face,"  answered  Doctor  Laura. 
"He  has  not  been  in  Chicago  long;  came  from 
the  East  somewhere;  New  York,  I  think,  or 
perhaps  Philadelphia.  Is  a  skilled  surgeon. 
Has  a  wide  reputation  in  the  profession,  grow- 
ing out  of  an  operation  which  no  one  but  him 
had  ever  successfully  performed  in  this  coun- 
try, though  it  had  been  done  in  Europe. 

This,  she  thought,  could  not  be  her  husband 
The  smooth  face  and  gray  hair  proved  that, 


sional  ability  or  standing  i 


not 


326          KATHARINE    CLARK 

thought,  that  an  obscure  doctor  in  a  country 
town  would  distinguish  himself  in  that  way. 
So  the  momentary  alarm  was  stilled,  and 
though  Doctor  Laura  frequently  spoke  of 
Doctor  Clark  and  seemed  to  have  him  often 
in  her  thoughts,  Katharine  listened  with  indif- 
ference. But  she  could  not  keep  her  husband 
from  her  mind.  For  a  long  while  she  did  not 
understand  the  cause.  When  she  first  arrived 
it  was  not  so.  It  came  upon  her  one  day  that 
she  had  changed.  She  remembered  that  she 
had  left  home  because  she  wanted  a  chance  for 
unhampered  development.  The  development 
had  not  come  as  she  had  planned,  but  a  change 
had  come.  She  was  not  the  same  woman  who 
had  dismissed  her  duties  and  responsibilities  as 
she  would  cast  aside  a  garment,  and  gone  away 
thinking  of  herself  only.  The  enormity  of 
that  proceeding  forced  itself  upon  her  at  this 
late  day  and  filled  her  with  shame  and  remorse. 
She  wondered  what  her  husband  thought, 
and  what  he  had  done  and  was  doing.  Her  hus- 
band! Perhaps — ah! — perhaps  she  could  not 
call  him  hers  any  longer.  She  shivered  at  the 
thought  of  divorce.  Her  conduct  had  given 
him  the  legal  right  to  ask  one  and  he  might  be 


KATHARINE    CLARK         827 

anxious  for  his  freedom.  She  would  not  hinder 
him,  but  she  would  like  him  to  understand  that 
she  had  sinned  in  ignorance.  It  could  make  no 
difference  now,  except  that  it  might  modify 
his  contempt  a  little  if  he  realized  that  when 
she  went  away  she  had  no  proper  comprehen- 
sion of  the  nature  of  her  offense.  Then  she 
had  no  heart,  and  now  it  had  grown.  What 
had  made  it  grow?  Why,  she  had  seen  life; 
her  sympathies  and  compassion  had  been 
aroused;  conscience  had  developed;  she  had 
broadened  in  every  way.  And — and — why 
deny  it  to  herself? — love  had  been  born.  It 
must  have  been  there,  the  little  beginning  of 
that  love  for  her  husband,  in  that  past  time; 
when  she  felt  the  need  of  it,  it  had  burst  its 
bonds  and  had  taken  possession  of  her.  But  it 
had  come  too  late. 

She  had  fancied  in  her  blind  selfishness  that 
nothing  was  so  essential  to  her  happiness  as  in- 
tellectual improvement.  She  had  gained  that, 
though  not  from  books.  She  had  fulfilled  her 
purpose  to  be  self-supporting.  She  had  tested 
her  capabilities  as  well  as  her  limitations,  and 
knew  that  whatever  may  have  been  the  original 
reason  for  her  employment  she  had  made  her- 


328          KATHARINE    CLARK 

self  useful  and  her  services  valuable.  But  this 
success  and  sense  of  security  were,  after  all,  not 
satisfactory.  What  was  the  use  of  it  all?  She 
had  chosen  her  own  path  and  must  continue  in 
it,  but  an  independent  life  just  for  the  sake  of 
independence  was  not  the  gratifying  condition 
it  once  had  looked. 

These  thoughts  pressed  upon  her  more  and 
more  of  late,  and  at  times  an  almost  irresistible 
desire  came  over  her  to  go  in  search  of  Doctor 
Clark — not  to  speak  to  him,  she  said  to  herself, 
but  just  to  look  at  him  and  to  know  of  his  wel- 
fare. 

One  afternoon  she  climbed  the  steps  of  the 
Great  Northern  Hospital,  partly  to  have  a  chat 
with  Doctor  Laura,  of  whom  in  the  busy  lives 
of  both  she  saw  but  little,  and  partly  to  visit  a 
little  waif  from  the  slums  whose  broken  body 
first  drew  her  notice,  but  whose  cheery  spirit 
was  an  inspiration.  The  pathetic  little  crea- 
tures in  the  children's  ward  appealed  to  her  as 
the  petted  darlings  she  saw  outside  had  never 
done,  and  she  visited  them  often. 

She  went  down  the  long  ward  quietly,  and 
finding  her  little  friend  asleep,  passed  on.  Near 
the  end  of  the  room  was  a  screened  alcove,  and 


KATHARINE    CLARK          329 

just  before  reaching  it  she  heard  a  voice  that 
sent  the  blood  surging  fiercely  through  her 
veins.  Mechanically  she  took  a  step  forward. 
There  stood  Doctor  John  Clark — her  John 
Clark — and  near  him  Doctor  Laura,  looking 
like  a  madonna,  with  a  little  child  in  her  arms. 
The  man's  hair  was  gray,  nearly  white — it  had 
not  been  so  when  she  saw  him  last — and  his 
face  was  smooth-shaven,  but  he  was  her  hus- 
band. 

They  were  talking  about  the  child,  but  were 
evidently  on  friendly  and  familiar  terms  and 
in  good  spirits,  for  both  laughed  gaily  over  the 
youngster's  protest  against  bitter  medicine. 

Katharine  turned  and  went  away  swiftly. 
A  white-capped  nurse  was  soothing  a  fretful 
babe  with  a  soft  lullaby.  Years  after,  that 
song,  heard  by  chance,  brought  a  sudden  pang 
to  her  heart  with  a  memory  of  this  day.  She 
went  home  and  locked  herself  in  her  room. 

She  saw  it  all  now,  she  said  to  herself. 

Her  husband  and  Doctor  Laura  had  been 
thrown  together  all  these  months  with  the  re- 
sult that  might  have  been  expected— they  had 
grown  fond  of  each  other.  It  could  not  be 
otherwise,  and  neither  was  to  blame.  Doctor 


830          KATHARINE    CLARK 

Laura,  of  course,  was  unsuspecting  and  her 
husband — well,  was  he  at  fault?  She  herself 
was  the  one  who  had  wrought  misery  for  not 
only  one  but  for  three  lives,  for  her  husband 
and  her  friend  as  well  as  for  herself.  But  she 
would  do  what  she  could  to  extricate  them.  He 
might  have  his  freedom. 

After  a  time,  while  she  sat  there  in  tearful 
wretchedness,  came  Doctor  Laura  to  the  door, 
bearding  the  lion  in  its  den. 

"Why  did  you  not  come  in  to-day  and  meet 
your  husband?  Yes,  I  saw  you  in  the  mirror. 
Yes,  I  have  known  for  a  long  time  that  Doctor 
Clark  of  our  hospital  is  your  husband.  Why 
did  I  not  tell  you?  Because  he  forbade  me. 
Why?  That  you  must  ask  him.  Have  a  care, 
my  dear,  what  you  say.  No,  I  am  not  in  the 
least  in  love  with  him,  married  men  not  being 
in  my  line,  but  I  am  his  friend  and  think  him 
too  good  to  have  been  served  as  he  has  been." 

Then  out  of  a  dainty  handbag,  not  at  all  like 
the  regulation  medicine  case  came  a  little  vial. 
"Here,  let  me  give  you  this  powder;  you  are 
tired  out  and  need  rest.  Come  to  my  office  to- 
morrow at  four  o'clock  and  we  will  talk  the 


KATHARINE    CLARK         331 

matter  over.     To-night  I  have  not  another 
word  to  say." 

Next  day  Doctor  Laura  met  Editor  Fowler 
on  the  street.    "I  am  at  last  about  to  lose  my 
protege,"  she  said  as  he  turned  and  walked 
with  her.    "I  have  arranged  for  a  meeting  be- 
tween Doctor  Clark  and  his  wife,  and  if  they 
do  not  kiss  and  make  up  I  wash  my  hands  of 
them.    There  can  be  no  doubt  of  his  willing- 
ness, but  as  she  had  never  spoken  I  was  not 
sure  of  her  until  I  found  last  night  that  she 
was  jealous.    He  has  been  jealous  of  you  and 
Katharine's  association  with  you  from  the  be- 
ginning, and  now  Katharine  is  filled  with  the 
idea  that  her  husband  is  enamored  of  me.    I 
might  have  lightened  her  misery  a  little  by  re- 
peating some  of  the  things  he  has  said  about 
her,  but  I  was  too  wise  to  tell  a  wife  that  a  hus- 
band made  her  a  subject  of  conversation  with 
another  woman,  even  though  all  his  remarks 
were  kind.    It  is  a  curious  phase  of  human  na- 
ture   which    invariably    leads   the   man    and 
woman  in  love  to  believe  that  the  respective 
objects  of  their  affection  are  coveted  by  other 
men  and  women.     On  the  other  hand,  Mrs. 


332         KATHARINE    CLARK 

Clark  would  probably  not  be  pleased  if  I  were 
to  tell  her  that  Doctor  Clark  was  really  getting 
to  be  something  of  a  bore  by  his  perpetual  talk 
of  her — his  inquiries  and  solicitude !  I  was  his 
only  means  of  hearing  from  her,  but  it  has 
been  a  trifle  wearing  on  the  mutual  friend. 
The  confidences  of  a  man  in  love  with  another 
woman  cease  to  be  wholly  entertaining  after  a 
time." 

"Which  reminds  me  to  ask,"  said  Editor 
Fowler,  "when  you  are  going  to  give  up  that 
doctor  business  and  give  a  man  who  is  not  in 
love  with  the  other  woman  a  chance." 

Doctor  Laura  smiled.  "Giving  up  that  *doc- 
tor  business' — a  profession  that  I  like — just 
to  look  after  an  editor-man,  whose  newspaper 
work  leaves  him  no  time  in  which  to  live  like 
a  civilized  being,  is  no  trifling  matter,  as  I  have 
told  you  before.  But  in  order  to  allay  the  sus- 
picions and  possible  remorse  of  our  friends, 
the  Clarks,  perhaps  it  will  be  as  well  to  tell 
them  that  some  day — oh,  some  day  when  a  few 
of  my  sick  people  are  well  again — I  think  of 
marrying  you.  There,  there!  Remember  we 
are  on  State  Street,  and  do  not  look  to  fool- 
ish." 


KATHARINE    CLARK          333 

Katharine  came  to  Doctor  Laura's  office  at 
the  appointed  time,  not  knowing  what  to  ex- 
pect. She  had  often  rehearsed  to  herself  the 
little  speech  she  would  make  to  her  hushand  in 
case  they  should  ever  meet.  She  would  tell  him 
that  she  had  not  realized  the  gravity  of  her  of- 
fense at  the  time ;  she  would  beg  his  forgive- 
ness and  would  then  advise  that  he  obtain  legal 
release  from  his  bonds.  After  which,  she  pic- 
tured herself  going  away  quietly  to  a  sad  and 
lonely  life. 

"Just  step  into  the  inner  room,"  said  Doctor 
'Laura  cheerfully  on  her  arrival,  "and  I  shall 
be  at  leisure  presently." 

Katharine  opened  the  door  and  stood  face  to 
face  with  her  husband.  They  looked  at  each 
other  a  moment,  but  the  words  she  had  pre- 
pared for  utterance  in  such  an  emergency  re- 
fused to  come.  He  held  out  his  arms  and  ex- 
planations were  postponed. 

Afterward,  when  they  reached  coherent 
speech  and  she  had  confessed  her  remorse  for 
her  conduct  and  he  had  duly  blamed  himself 
for  the  unhappiness  that  led  her  to  it,  she  ac- 
knowledged her  fear  lest  he  had  found  some 
one  who  had  taken  her  place  in  his  heart. 


334         KATHARINE    CLARK 

"That  was  not  possible,"  he  said.  "When  a 
man  loves  truly  once  he  does  not  change." 

He  believed  what  he  said.  Every  man  cher- 
ishes this  conviction — until  he  loves  again. 

"But  you,"  he  said,  "you  cared  so  little  for 
me  once,  another  man  might — " 

"There  could  be  no  other  man,"  she  an- 
swered with  serene  assurance.  "I  cared  for 
you  always,  though  at  first  I  did  not  know  it." 

Then  she  asked,  "How  did  you  find  me?" 

He  laughed.  "It  would  not  have  been  dif- 
ficult to  trace  you  from  Oldtown,  but  as  it 
happened,  that  was  unnecessary.  On  the  day 
I  received  your  letter  I  went  to  the  Kokomo 
station  to  take  the  train  east.  The  west-bound 
train  halted  and  I  had  a  glimpse  of  you.  I 
boarded  that  train.  I  came  with  you  to  Chi- 
cago. I  followed  you  to  your  boarding-place 
and  I  have  followed  you  many  a  night  since  on 
your  way  from  the  office.  The  temptation  to 
speak  was  great,  but  I  could  not  bear  a  repulse, 
so  I  waited.  It  brought  these  gray  hairs, 
though." 

Presently  she  murmured,  "And  you  shaved 
your  mustache?" 


KATHARINE    CLARK          385 

"Yes,  as  a  sort  of  disguise  in  case  you  caught 
sight  of  me." 

"Let  it  grow  again,  please,  John,  it  was 
beautiful." 

Then  he  went  on  in  lighter  tone:  "You 
will  be  glad  to  know  that  my  Indiana  farm 
turned  out  to  be  oil  territory  and  has  made  a 
small  fortune  for  us." 

"Let  us  leave  Chicago,  then,"  she  exclaimed 
impulsively.  "At  first  I  loved  it.  Its  tre- 
mendous energy  inspired  me.  But  now  it 
seems  different.  It  saps  the  very  life.  It  is 
like  some  cruel  monster  which  absorbs  the 
strength  and  vitality  of  all  who  come  within  its 
reach  and  leaves  them  nothing." 

"Where  do  you  wish  to  go?"  he  asked. 

"Anywhere,"  she  answered  softly,  "any- 
where with  you — even  to  Kokomo." 


THE  END 


000046217    e 


